LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


AMERICA  THE  BEAUTIFUL 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


FROM    GRETNA    GREEN 
TO    LAND'S   END 

A   READING  JOURNEY   THROUGH   ENGLAND 

BY   KATHARINE   LEE   BATES 

Illustrated    Net,   $2.00 

ROMANTIC    LEGENDS 
OF   SPAIN 

BY  GUSTAVO   A.    BECQUER 

TRANSLATED  BY  CORNELIA  FRANCES  BATES 
AND  KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 

Illustrated    Net,  $1*30 

THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  CO. 

NEW    YORK 


AMERICA  THE  BEAUTIFUL 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 

AUTHOR  OF  "FROM  GRETNA  GREEN  TO  LAND'S  END/ 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CEOWELL  COMPANY. 

Published  September,  1911. 


00 

TO 
MARION  PELTON  GUILD 

00 


225933 


Thanks  for  permission  to  include  in  this  volume  poems 
already  printed  are  rendered  to  the  following  periodicals: 

The  Atlantic,  Canadian  Magazine,  The  Century,  The 
Chautauquan,  Christian  Endeavor  World,  The  Congrega- 
tionalist,  The  Cosmopolitan,  The  Critic,  Everybody's 
Magazine,  Good  Housekeeping,  The  Independent,  Lip- 
pincott's  Magazine,  New  England  Magazine,  The  Out 
look,  National  Magazine,  The  Youth's  Companion. 

The  courtesy  of  the  Chicago  Madrigal  Club  is  recog 
nized,  too,  and  that  of  the  Macmillan  Publishing  Com 
pany. 


CONTENTS 


AMERICA  THE  BEAUTIFUL »  S 

Year  of  the  Vision 4 

Land  of  Hope 5 

The   Flag 8 

The  Peace-Maker 8 

The   Sea-Path 9 

The  First  Voyage  of  John  Cabot 14 

Hudson's  Third  Voyage 14 

Niagara 17 

The  Song  of  Niagara 17 

The  American  Coast 19 

Memorial  Day 20 

Above  the  Battle 25 

America  to  England 26 

England  to  America 27 

Glory 28 

Pigeon  Post 28 

The  Pity  of  It 29 

Blood-Road 31 

The  Great  Twin  Brethren 32 

To  My  Country 33 

II 

HOME       37 

The   Falmouth   Bell .39 

The  Falmouth  Church 41 

Indian  Bearers 43 

The  Slave's  Escape 52 

The  "  Somerset  " 54 

Epitome ,     ....  56 

III 

THE  IDEAL 59 

Cape  of  Good  Hope 61 

Carpe  Diem 62 

vii 


PAGE 

Dream  and  Deed 63 

Opportunity 63 

Beyond  the  Pillars  of  the  Rainbow 64 

The  Poet 65 

Success        66 

The  Tree  of  Song 66 

Poetry 66 

Sunrise  in  the  Library 67 

At  the  Laying  of  the  Corner-Stone 67 

Musarum  Sacerdos 69 

Dan  Chaucer 69 

Matthew  Arnold 70 

Ibsen 71 

To    Shelley       72 

Longfellow:    In  Memoriam 73 

The  Passing  of  Christina  Rossetti 75 

Swinburne        76 

In  the  Poets'  Corner 77 

On  the  Gold  Coasts 77 

April  23rd,   1564 79 

The    Guest       80 

Poeta  Poetarum 81 

IV 

WHAT  is  THE  SPIRIT? 85 

Logic 86 

To  Truth        87 

The  Gifts  of  Life 88 

Avalon 88 

The  Remonstrance 90 

"Come  Unto  Me" 92 

On  Christmas   Eve 93 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 93 

The  Kings  of  the  East 95 

The  New  Jerusalem 96 

Nocturne        96 

Sleep        97 

The   Prayer 100 

The  Empty  Room 102 

Overheard 103 

"A  Good  Heart  Breaks  Bad  Luck" 104 

Quoth  Marcus  Aurelius 104 

Godward         105 

Thanksgiving 105 


[ix] 

PAGE 

Another  Year 106 

Felices       10T 

Non  Nobis  Solum 107 

Cheer  by  the  Way ' 109 

Thou  Knowest 109 

Strewing  the  Golden  Grain 110 

Sunday  in  the  Conservatory 110 

The  Trinity 112 

The  Optimist 113 

Our  Lady's  Tumbler 113 

V 

THE  PRAISE  OF  NATURE 119 

A  January  Twilight 122 

To  a  Crow 122 

A  Shakespeare  Masquerade    . 123 

Illumined 124 

Midwinter 125 

A  Song  of  Waking 125 

The  Spring  of  Life 127 

May 127 

Gypsy-Heart       128 

Under  the  Ferns 129 

Summer  Dawn 131 

Hills  and  Sea 131 

Out  of  Sight  of  Land 132 

Into  the  Night 134, 

The    Harper        134 

"When  God  Dawns,  He  Dawns  on  All" 135 

The  Sweet  o'  the  Year 135 

The  Golden  Wedding 13G 

Hurt 139 

Autumn 140 

Flight        140 

Sunken  Leaves 141 

Winter 142 

To  the  Old  Year 143 

The    New   Year 143 

The  Changing  Road 145 

VI 

LOVE  PLAXTED  A  ROSE 149 

Heart  of  Hearts ,  149 

"  She  is  the  Grace  of  All  that  Are  "    .  150 


PAGE 

Valentine        151 

When  It  Befortunes  Us '    ...  151 

Measures         152 

Saint  Valentine's  Dilemma 153 

Insecurity 154 

So  It  Pierce  the  Crust 155 

Were   Love  but  True 155 

Disillusion 156 

The   Victory       156 

The  Worth  of  Life 15T 

The    Fellowship 15T 

The  Etiquette  of  the  Palace 158 

Pot-Pourri 159 

A  Private 1GO 

The  Quality  of  Mercy 161 

The  Proving  of  the  Knight 161 

The  Passer-by 162 

Faces 163 

Baby    . 164 

The   Secret 165 

Sleeping   Bessie 166 

Little    Katharine 168 

Watching  the  Wedding 169 

A  Mountain  Soul 173 

Rest 174 

Spirits  of  Flame 175 

VII 

AZRAEL           179 

The  Gates  of  Death 180 

Immortality         181 

"The  Rest  is  Silence"        182 

The  Passing  Soul       184 

Under  the  Snows 184 

Glisten  the  Marbles  Tall 185 

Cremation 185 

The  Far  Journey 186 

Saint  Martha 187 

If  We  Could  Tell 189 

Laddie 190 

"Short  Day  and  Long  Remembrance" 191 

Heart's   Desire 193 

"Whom  the  Gods  Love  Die  Young" 194 

Clara 195 


[xi] 

PAGE 

Watch  and  Ward       .     .     .• 196 

Only  a  Year 197 

The  Testimony 197 

Sunset   Song        198 

Yesterday's  Grief 199 

The  Funeral  of  Phillips  Brooks 199 

Loyal  to  the  Truth 202 

A  Sunset  Parable 202 

The  White  Pinnace 203 

The   Sacrifice 204 

Our  Lady  of  Pity 205 

Threnody       . 207 

VIII 

THE  WANDER-YEAR 213 

First  View  of  Mont  Blanc 224 

The  Glacier  of  Bossons 225 

The  Jungfrau 225 

The  Castle  of  Blonay 226 

To  the  Nile 227 

Abu  Simbel 230 

Sunrise  on  the  Nile         232 

Murillo's  "  Holy  Family  of  the  Little  Bird  "       ....  233 

Palm  Sunday  in  Galilee 234 

Poppies 235 

June  in  England 236 

Furness  Abbey 236 

Vignettes  from  Lincolnshire 237 

On  the  Malvern  Hills 239 

The  Church  of  St.  Saviour 240 

At  Tintern 241 

At  Wells        242 

Sailing-Day  at  Clovelly 243 

In    Cornwall        246 

Sea-Birds       248 

IX 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  SPANISH  FOLK-SONG 251 

Coplas        251 

Christmas  Carols 276 

Playing  with  Baby 283 

Children's  Songs 284 


[xii] 

PAGE 

Worldly  Wisdom 292 

Long  Live  Love 293 

The  Daughters  of  Ceferino 294 

Washing  the  Handkerchief 295 

Mambrii 295 

The  Leaning  Tower  of  Saragossa 296 

Flowers  are  for  the  Earth 297 

A  Dismal  Little  Nun 297 

Santa  Catalina 299 

Harvest  Song 299 

Bonaparte  Went  Up  to  Heaven 300 

Viva  Cadiz 300 

Queen  Isabel 300 

Marshal  Prim 302 

Queen  Mercedes 302 

We're  Chosen  for  Alfonsito 303 

On  a  Morning  of  St.  John 304 

The  Passing  of  the  Wafer 305 


I 


AMERICA  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

O  BEAUTIFUL  for  spacious  skies, 
For  amber  waves  of  grain, 
For  purple  mountain  majesties 
Above  the  fruited  plain! 

America !     America ! 
God  shed  His  grace  on  thee 
And  crown  thy  good  with  brotherhood 
From  sea  to  shining  sea ! 

O  beautiful  for  pilgrim  feet, 

Whose  stern,  impassioned  stress 
A  thoroughfare  for  freedom  beat 

Across  the  wilderness ! 
America !     America ! 

God  mend  thine  every  flaw, 
Confirm  thy  soul  in  self-control, 

Thy  liberty  in  law! 

O  beautiful  for  heroes  proved 

In  liberating  strife, 
Who  more  than  self  their  country  loved. 

And  mercy  more  than  life! 
America !    'America ! 

May  God  thy  gold  refine, 
Till  all  success  be  nobleness, 

And  every  gain  divine! 

3 


O  beautiful  for  patriot  dream 

That  sees  beyond  the  years 
Thine  alabaster  cities  gleam 

Undimmed  by  human  tears! 
America !  America ! 

God  shed  His  grace  on  thee 
And  crown  thy  good  with  brotherhood 

From  sea  to  shining  sea! 


YEAR  OF  THE  VISION 
(1893) 

IS  there  no  ivy  greener  than  the  rest, 
No  amaranth  from  shadowy  isles  Elysian, 
That  we  may  lay  upon  thy  snow-heaped  breast, 
Year  of  the  Vision? 

For  thou  hast  touched  this  people  to  a  grace 

That  half  rebukes  the  solitary  ditty. 
All  men  were  poets  for  one  brief,  bright  space 
In  the  White  City. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  her  glistening  domes 

A  bitter  wind  swept  by  to  waste  and  wither. 
A  cry  went  up  from  hunger-smitten  homes, 
But  came  not  hither. 

So  fair  she  stood,  imparadised  within 
Her  own  delight,  as  film  of  elfin  labor, 


[5] 

A  moonshine  fabric,  far  from  stain  and  din 
Of  her  dark  neighbor. 

And  yet  Chicago,  from  her  troubled  gloom, 

Young  daughter  of  the  young,  undaunted  nation, 
Breathed  in  this  evanescent  lily-bloom 
Heart-aspiration. 

For  through  all  stress  of  the  material  strife, 

The  greed,  the  clash,  the  coarse,  unlovely  fashion, 
America  bears  on  to  sweeter  life 
And  purer  passion. 

Oh,  sting  our  souls  with  this  diviner  need 

And,  ere  thou  fadest,  take  our  high  decision 
To  make  thy  radiant  dream  immortal  deed, 
Year  of  the  Vision. 


LAND  OF  HOPE 


MANY  the  lands  that  the  true-hearted  honor, 
Many  the  banners  that  blow  on  the  sea; 
Ah,  but  one  only  —  God's  blessing  upon  her !  — 

Must  be  forever  the  fairest  to  me; 
Dear  for  her  mountains,  rock-based,  cloudy-crested, 

Hooded  with  snow  in  the  ardors  of  June, 
Haunts  where  the  bald-headed  eagle  has  nested, 

Staring  full  hard  on  his  neighbor,  the  moon ; 
Dear  for  her  vineyards  and  jessamine  gardens, 

Forests  of  fir  where  the  winter  wakes ; 


[6] 

Dear  for  her  oceans,  her  twin  grey  wardens ; 

Dear  for  her  girdle  of  amethyst  lakes; 
Dear  for  the  song  of  the  wind  when  it  crosses 

Sunshiny  prairies  a-ripple  with  wheat ; 
Nay,  I  could  kiss  but  the  least  of  her  mosses, 

Sweet  as  the  touch  of  a  mother  is  sweet. 


Silver  and  gold  that  the  aeons  had  hidden 

For  the  pleasure  of  man  ere  his  likeness  arose ; 
Coal  in  whose  blackness  the  flame  lay  forbidden ; 

Let  not  her  treasure  be  counted  by  those. 
Richer  she  deemeth  her  heirdom  of  labor, 

Her  heraldry  blazoned  in  chisel  and  saw, 
Tradition  of  councils  where  neighbor  with  neighbor 

Forgathered  to  fashion  the  settlement  law. 
Peace  to  the  homespun,  the  heroes  who  wore  it. 

Whose  patriot  passion  in  stormy  career 
Swept  back  the  redcoats  seaward  before  it, 

Like  wind-driven  leaves  in  the  wane  of  the  year. 
Peace  be  to  all  who  have  suffered  or  striven, 

Fought  for  her,  thought  for  her,  wrought  for  her  till 
She  hath  grown  great  with  the  life  they  have  given, 

She  must  be  noble  their  faith  to  fulfill. 

in 

Tell  me  not  now  of  the  blots  that  bestain  her 
Beautiful  vestments,  that  sully  the  white. 

Though  to-day  hath  the  wrong  been  gainer, 
To-morrow's  victory  crowns  the  right. 


[7] 

Still  through  error  and  shame  and  censure 

She  urges  onward  with  straining  breast, 
For  her  face  is  set  to  the  great  adventure, 

Her  feet  are  vowed  to  the  utmost  quest. 
Bright  is  the  star,  though  the  mists  may  dim  her ; 

Mists  are  fleeting,  but  stars  endure ; 
Yet,  ah,  yet  shall  the  golden  glimmer 

Wax  to  a  splendor  superb  and  pure. 
To  her  shall  our  prayer  be  as  pulsing  pinions ; 

A  winged  sphere  she  shall  soar  above 
Greed  of  gain  and  of  forced  dominions 

To  the  upper  heaven  whose  law  is  love. 


IV 


Land  of  Hope,  be  it  thine  to  fashion 

In  joy  and  beauty  the  toiler's  day ; 
Wear  on  thine  heart  the  white  rose  of  compassion ; 

Show  the  world  a  more  gracious  way. 
Still  by  the  need  of  that  seed  of  the  nation, 

Cavaliers  leaping  with  laughter  to  land, 
Puritans  kneeling,  in  stern  consecration, 

Parent  by  child,  on  their  desolate  strand, 
— Still  by  the  stress  of  those  seekers  storm-driven, 

Glad  in  strange  waters  their  vessels  to  moor, 
Open  thy  gates,  O  thou  favored  of  Heaven, 

Open  thy  gates  to  the  homeless  and  poor. 
So  shalt  thou  garner  the  gifts  of  the  ages, 

From  the  Norlands  their  vigor,  the  Southlands  their 

grace, 
In  a  mystical  blending  of  souls  that  presages 

The  birth  of  earth's  rarest,  undreamable  race. 


[8] 

THE  FLAG 

IT  is  not  fair  to  see,  our  starry  banner? 
You,  as  an  artist,  who  have  pledged  allegiance 
Only  to  Beauty,  find  it  crude  in  color, 
Stiff  in  design,  void  of  romantic  symbol, 
Unvenerable  ?     England's  golden  lions, 
Japan's  chrysanthemum,  imperial  flower 
Blooming  in  red  as  on  a  field  of  battle, 
The  holy  cross  of  Switzerland,  out-value 
To  all  impartial,  pure,  aesthetic  judgment 
The  flag  our  patriot  folly  terms  Old  Glory? 

I  cannot  tell.     Perchance  I  never  saw  it. 

When  on  the  seas  or  in  some  foreign  city, 

Nay,  here  at  home  above  a  country  school-house, 

I  find  it  floating  on  the  wind,  it  beckons 

My  heart  into  my  eyes.     It  is  not  buntii  g, 

Mere  red  and  white  and  blue, —  that  starry  cluster, 

Those  gleaming  folds ;  it  is  the  faith  of  childhood, 

The  unison  of  strong,  rejoicing  millions, 

The  splendor  of  a  vision  men  have  died  for, 

The  passion  of  a  people  vowed  to  freedom. 

"  LET  ME  BE  BLESSED  FOR  THE  PEACE 
I  MAKE  " 

"T     ET  me  be  blessed  for  the  peace  I  make." 

•*— '    God  grant  that  old  Shakespearean  praise  may 

glow, 

Columbia,  on  thy  brows  most  royal  so, 
Girt  with  a  crown  no  mortal  chances  break. 


[9] 

The  eagle  that  from  ruined  Rome  we  take 

Hath  but  a  pagan  heart.     His  kingdoms  go, 
That  the  dove's  kingdom  still  may  come,  and  flow 
O'er  all  the  world.     Ere  the  New  Century  wake, 

Make  straight  her  paths,  her  sweet  Triumphal  Way, 
For  not  by  might  and  power  earth's  sorrows  cease; 
Nor  shall  the  stars  in  our  young  banner  dim 

While  in  its  stripes  is  set  the  sign  of  Him 
Who  won  by  sufferance  an  eternal  sway, 
The  King  of  Glory  and  the  Prince  of  Peace. 


THE  SEA-PATH 

IN  the  hall  of  Swarin  the  Sea  King  the  thanes  were 
heavy  of  mood, 
Though  red  on  the  carven  benches  shone  the  light  from 

the  pine-tree  wood 
Ablaze   on   the  hearth,   and   golden  it  flashed   on   the 

many-folden,  . 

The  fair-dyed,  woven  hangings  where  the  bed  of  Swarin 
stood. 

Night-long  had  the  leeches  pondered  the  lore  of  the 
woodland  green, 

Runes  scored  on  the  bark  of  birch  trees  whose  quiver 
ing  branches  lean 

To  the  east,  and  wan  for  sorrow  they  waited  the  weird 
of  the  morrow, 

For  sore  their  hearts  misdoubted  what  the  brooding 
Norns  might  mean. 


[10] 

For  the  strength  was  shorn  from  Swarin.  As  a  storm- 
uprooted  oak 

Lay  the  Lord  of  the  Ice-Hills  mighty  in  the  play  of 
sworded  folk, 

But  the  white  hair,  oft  uplifted  by  the  whistling  sea- 
wind,  drifted 

Like  foam  on  the  blue-stained  bed-gear,  and  the  women's 
sobs  out-broke. 


Sudden  the  gray  lips  parted  with  a  glad,  far-echoing 

cry: 
"  Long  is  the  road  to  God-home,  but  behold !  my  feet 

draw  nigh. 
Wide  on  the  wold  is  the  faring,  but  the  hours  of  night 

are  wearing, 
And  my  day  of  days  is  dawning  in  yonder  pallid  sky. 

"  Make  room,  O  heroes  of  Odin !  room  at  the  mead- 
crowned  board!  • 

Yet  shamed  am  I  that  I  fall  not  by  bite  of  the  singing 
sword 

Amidst  the  eager  rattle  of  spears,  the  thorns  of  battle. 

Shall  Swarin  die  as  a  coward?  My  hearth-friends,  lift 
your  lord." 

Then  the  wail  waxed  great  and  grievous,  and  the  glee- 
men  rent  atwain 

Their  shining  harpstrings  witless  to  mend  the  people's 
pain, 


[11] 

For  love's  eyes,  nothing  blinded,  wist  well  that  the  king 

was  minded 
To  go  home  that  day  to  Odin  and  his  heart  of  death 

was  fain. 

But  the  Dauntless  of  Spirit  raised  him  and  called  for 

his  war-array, 
And  in   crested  helm  they   dight  him   and  steel   shirt 

gleaming  gray. 
On  his  gold-rimmed  shield  they  bore  him,  his  banner  of 

fame  before  him, 
And  the  horns  blew  up  as  for  battle,  while  they  took  the 

seaward  way. 

Then  the  pale  world  glowed  with  sundawn,  and  over  the 
blue  sea-floor 

Fell  a  ruddy  shaft  like  a  pathway  to  Odin's  open  door. 

With  gold  was  the  king's  helm  smitten,  and  the  dragon- 
keel  was  litten 

And  the  blazoned  sails,  and  the  sea-runes  cut  deep  in 
the  flashing  oar. 

On  the  deck  they  laid  King  Swarin,  with  treasure  for 
Odin's  need, 

Fur  cloaks,  and  hammered  war-gear  and  many  a  silken 
weed, 

With  gold  of  the  world's  desire,  and  they  hid  the  seed 
of  fire 

In  the  heart  of  the  foam-necked  sea-bird,  while  the  war- 
host  wept  for  the  deed. 


[12] 

But  in  seemly  guise  his  kinsfolk  heaped  store  of  price 
less  things, 

Glittering  stones  from  the  earth-caves,  and  battle-spoil 
of  rings, 

On  the  mail-girt  breast  of  the  Fearless,  and  smiled  to 
his  smiling,  tearless, 

And  wished  him  weal  in  his  faring,  for  their  hearts  were 
the  hearts  of  kings. 

Last  knelt  his  daughter  beside  him  and  kissed  him  soft 
and  sweet, 

And  lifted  her  child  to  nestle  once  more  where  the  great 
heart  beat ; 

Till  the  sunny  ringlets  blended  with  the  hoary  beard, — 
then  wended 

Shoreward  her  way  full  queenly,  guiding  the  young 
ling's  feet. 

And  the  dragon  leapt  from  the  tether,  the  golden  beak 

sprang  free, 

And  blithely  the  ship  ran  over  the  blue  hills  of  the  sea, 
Whilst  a  long  cry  followed  after,  but  the  white  waves 

foamed  with  laughter, 
And  the  salt  wind  sang  in  the  cordage  the  song  of 

JEger's  glee. 

And  the  keen  gray  eyes  of  Swarin,  whilst  the  clouds 

sped  by  above, 
Waxed  dreamy  as  maiden's  musing  on  her  blossoming 

days  of  love, 


[13] 

For  afar  from  his  gaze  had  drifted  all  sights  save  the 

east  sky  rifted 
By  the  ruby  gates  of  God-home,  and  his  heart  had 

peace  thereof. 

But  the  fire-seed  yearned  for  harvest,  for  the  praise  of 
those  who  reap, 

And  the  stealthy  flames,  a-whisper,  crept  up  the  bul 
wark  steep, 

Whilst  wide  o'er  the  Sea  Queen's  acre  rang  the  shout 
of  the  Battle-breaker, 

As  the  reddened  sword  of  Swarin  in  the  bitter  wound 
stood  deep. 

Clear  rose  the  hero's  death  song :  "  Thus  my  count  of 
slain  I  fill. 

Welcome  me  home,  All-Father!  On  earth  have  I 
wrought  thy  will. 

Now  are  the  bright  doors  parted,  and  over  the  gulf, 
leal-hearted, 

I  clasp  for  thy  cloudy  garment  and  follow  thy  foot 
steps  still." 

The  wild-fire  wrapt  the  sea-bird  from  topmast  uiifco 

wave, 
But  loud  laughed  out  King  Swarin  on  the  latest  breath 

he  gave, 
For  flashed  in  the  flame-rent  spaces  gold  shields  and 

glimmering  faces 
Of  Odin's  Victory-Wafters,  the  Choosers  of  the  Brave. 


[14] 
THE  FIRST  VOYAGE  OF  JOHN  CABOT 

E  chases  shadows,"  sneered  the  Bristol  tars. 

"As  well  fling  nets  to  catch  the  golden  stars 
As  climb  the  surges  of  earth's  utmost  sea." 
But  for  the  Venice  pilot,  meagre,  wan, 
His  swarthy  sons  beside  him,  life  began 
With  that  slipt  cable,  when  his  dream  rode  free. 

And  Henry,  on  his  battle-wrested  throne, 

The  Councils  done,  would  speak  in  musing  tone 

Of  Cabot,  not  the  cargo  he  might  bring. 

"  Man's  heart,  though  morsel  scant  for  hungry  crow, 

Is  greater  than  a  world  can  fill,  and  so 

Fair  fall  the  shadow-seekers !  "  quoth  the  king. 

HUDSON'S  THIRD  VOYAGE 


FROM  Holland  north  he  sailed  away 
(Lure  and  loss  of  the  Orient) 
To  cross  the  Pole  to  far  Cathay 

Where  the  hopes  of  the  merchants  went. 

Through  fog  and  sleet  and  gusting  weather 
The  Half-Moon  sought  the  Pole ; 

But  not  for  her  were  the  lands  of  myrrh, 
For  the  gods  had  set  her  goal. 


[15] 

The  crystal  gate  to  the  isles  of  spice 
It  was  not  for  her  to  find. 

The  white  bergs  kept  their  Paradise 
And  cast  her  down  the  wind. 


Over  the  waste  of  green  and  gray 

(North  Star  and  the  Scorpion's  Heart) 

The  little  Half-Moon  she  groped  her  way, 
Cleaving  the  surge  apart. 

No  more  was  she  than  a  seagull's  feather 

To  that  awful,  billowy  vast. 
The  rending  gales  made  sport  of  her  sails, 

But  her  master's  will  held  fast. 

She  scudded  before  the  westering  wind, 

And  league  on  league  she  won, 
Till  the  wrath  of  the  deep  was  left  behind, 

And  the  land  stood  fair  in  sun. 

in 

Here  they  touched  and  there  they  lay: 
(Goodly  grapes  and  wild-rose  trees) 

They  stretched  their  hands  out  over  the  spray 
To  take  the  fragrances. 

But  the  little  Half-Moon  she  tugged  at  her  tether ; 

She  had  not  found  her  own ; 
Like  a  restless  ghost  she  roamed  the  coast 

Till  the  rose  was  over-blown. 


[16] 

And  the  grapes  were  purple  upon  the  vine 
When  at  last  her  course  she  took  • 

—  For  the  gods  had  given  their  secret  sign  — 
Past  the  point  of  Sandy  Hook. 

IV 

Manna-hatta  all  sweet  with  woods 
(Yellow  boughs  on  the  autumn  air) 

Longed  in  her  startled  solitudes 

For  the  burden  her  heart  must  bear. 

But  ever  the  master  wondered  whether 

His  path  to  the  isles  would  flow 
From  the  mighty  stream  that  mocked  his  dream 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

Here  were  his  Indies,  here  his  fame. 

Where  the  hidden  river  rolled, 
Where  the  echoing  cliffs  caught  up  his  name, 

And  the  mountains  gleamed  with  gold. 


When  the  Hudson  glistens,  a  moonlight  strip, 
(Only  the  gods  decree  the  crown) 

There  sails  up  stream  a  little  old  ship 
As  still  as  thistledown. 

Dutchmen  and  Englishmen  lean  together 

Out  from  her  long-nosed  prow; 
Antique  is  the  group  on  her  queer  high  poop ; 

Clouded  her  master's  brow. 


[17] 

His  passion  breaks  his  postured  trance, 
A  great  sigh  heaves  his  breast, 

Still  chafing  at  the  tarriance 
On  his  enchanted  quest. 


NIAGARA 

PASSION  of  plunging  waters,  blanched  to  spray, 
But  shot  with  sheen  of  chrysolite  and  beryl ; 
Columnar  mist  and  glistening  rainbow  play ; 
A  splendid  thrill  of  glory  and  of  peril. 


THE  SONG  OF  NIAGARA 

AN  alien  song.    Though  day  by  day  I  listen, 
No  syllable  of  that  majestic  chant 
May  my  adoring  passion  comprehend. 
With  many  a  lucent,  evanescent  hue 
The  plunging  torrents  glisten. 
Far-seen,  colossal  plumes  of  spray  ascend, 
Their  dazzling  white  shot  through  and  through 
With  quivering  rainbows,  until  every  plant, 
Each  hoar,  blue-berried  cedar  loved  of  bird, 
Each  fine  fern  tracery,  the  cold  mists  christen 
To  spirit  grace.     The  frosted  branches  bend 
With  sparkle  of  such  jewels  as  transcend 
All  fantasy  of  elfin-craft.     Yet  who 
Interpreteth  the  great  enchantment's  word? 


[18] 

Ye  are  the  primal  Sibyls,  Sisters  twain ; 

Far  elder  than  the  whispering  Cumaean, 

Or  Delphi's  burning  prophetess,  ye  hold 

Your  splendid  thrones  unvisited  of  Time, 

—  One  robed  in  rushing  waters  whose  rich  gold, 

Imperial  fold  on  fold, 

Was  wrought  from  sunsets  of  an  earlier  aeon, 

Of  an  intenser  clime, 

Yet  tinged  by  April  willows  and  the  rain 

Of  forest  leaves  autumnal,  powdery  drift 

The  eddies  bring  as  tribute  gift 

Of  Huron  and  Superior ;  and  One, 

More  graciously  sublime, 

Mantled  in  raiment  spun 

From  foliage  of  some  strange,  supernal  spring, 

Such  pure  ethereal  green 

That  Heaven  stoops  down,  her  holy  azure  fain 

To  blend  with  it  and  revel  in  the  sun; 

And  oftentimes  each  iris-scarfed  Queen, 

As  angel-wing  reflecteth  angel-wing, 

Puts  on  her  sister's  sheen. 

Mysterious !  if  eyes  can  hardly  bear 

The  glory  of  your  opalescent  robes, 

Your  diamond  aureoles  and  veils  empearled, 

May  the  stunned  ear  divine 

Your  awful  oracle?    August,  yet  wild, 

Do  your  tremendous  paeans  still  prolong 

Creation's  old,  unhumanized  delight, 

The  laughter  of  the  Titans?    Were  ye  there 

With  your  deep  diapason  answering 

The  archangelic,  chanting,  golden  globes, 


[19] 

What  time  they  chorused  forth  their  crystalline, 

Exultant  welcome  to  the  stranger  world? 

Or  is  it,  tolling  Cataracts,  the  doom, 

The  unrevealable,  forbidden  thing, 

Your  antiphonic,  solemn  voices  boom? 

Or  peradventure  do  your  peals  proclaim 

Some  all-triumphal  Name 

That  could  it  once  be  won  by  mortal  ear 

Would  ecstasy  the  griefs  we  suffer  here 

And  charter  Love  to  wing 

Her  radiant  flight  beyond  oblivion  ? 

Dread  Sisters,  ye  who  smite 

The  senses  with  intolerable  roar, 

Is  there  no  meaning  in  your  ceaseless  song, 

No  word  of  God  in  all  your  mighty  throng 

Of  multitudinous  thunders  evermore? 


THE  AMERICAN  COAST 

OUR  eager  vessel  flings  a  foam 
That  dazzles  with  the  setting  sun. 

A  thousand  voices  talk  of  home ; 

Our  voyage  is  almost  done. 

Not  for  the  gracious  green  of  English  meadows, 

Not  for  the  fragrances  of  hawthorn  lanes, 

Not  for  the  fall  of  soft,  remembering  shadows 

On  desolated  fanes, 

O  our  own  land, 

Freedom's  throneland, 

Line  of  lilac  on  the  sea, 

Would  we  give  our  hearts  from  thee. 


[20] 

The  west  is  gold  as  daffodils, 
With  sudden  rifts  that  seem  to  ope 
On  emerald  forests,  opal  hills 
And  lawns  of  heliotrope. 

Not  for  a  Riviera  full  of  roses, 

Not  for  an  Andalusia  full  of  sun, 

Not  for  a  dreaming  Orient  that  reposes 

Where  hushed  waters  run, 

0  our  own  land, 

Freedom's  throneland, 

Line  of  lilac  on  the  sea, 

Would  we  give  our  hearts  from  thee. 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

THE  holy  day  of  heroes  —  let  us  greet  it 
With  rain  of  blooms  on  every  soldier's  grave, 
With  hearts  that  utter,  ere  our  lips  repeat  it, 
The  sacred  cry  of  Glory  to  the  Brave! 
Our  spirits  yearn  with  pride  and  pain 
Toward  the  unforgotten  slain 
Of  Gettysburg,  Chancellorsville, 
Chattanooga,  Malvern  Hill, 
Dallas,  Shiloh  —  what  you  will, 
For  names  spring  fast 
From  the  burning  Past, 
Almost  the  Present  still. 
Tears  still  are  salt  for  those  who  fell, 
Precious  wreckage  of  shot  and  shell, 
Bruised  and  shattered  and  overthrown, 


[21] 

Riders  cleft  by  the  saber-stroke, 

Stormers  torn  in  the  cannon-smoke, 

The  dying  whose  gaze  could  scarce  descry 

Floating  flag  from  drifting  sky, — 

Trampled  and  rent  and  riven, 

Their  orison  a  groan, 

Giving  their  life  as  the  Christ's  was  given, 

For  a  mercy  not  their  own. 

O  shining  spirits  who  thronging  went 

Up  from  that  awful  sacrament, 

By  one  keen  agony  shriven, 

Up  from  the  South  where  the  slave  had  wept, 

Up  from  the  land  where  the  truth  had  slept, — 

O  shining  spirits,  be  well  content! 

Did  not  your  blood  atone  ? 

ii 

And  ah !  those  specters  of  men 

Called  to  endure 

In  sickly  swamp,  in  prison  pen, 

A  martyrdom  obscure ; 

When  will  our  pang  for  these  be  healed, 

Or  passionate  pity  cease  for  those 

Who,  stretched  long  hours  on  the  encrimsoned  field, 

Prayed  God  for  one  more  bullet  from  their  foes? 

Many  ambrosial  Mays 

With  weft  of  bud  and  tender  leaf, 

Impearled  with  gleaming  rains, 

Have  hid  those  battle  stains, 

But  have  not  quenched  the  grief, 

[And  have  not  dimmed  the  praise. 


[22] 

E'en  now,  on  these  delicious  days, 

Comes  there  no  sob  of  loss, 

No  bugle  call  across 

The  dulcet  lilt  of  birds  in  creamy  sprays? 


m 


The  count  of  dead  is  not  complete 

With  those  whose  splendid  winding-sheet 

Was  ruddy  fire  and  vital  flow 

Of  patriot  blood  —  red  roses  strow  — 

Nor  yet  with  those  who  bore 

A  lingering  tragedy,  for  whom  we  heap 

Poppies  of  balmy  sleep. 

The  fatal  list  has  more. 

Above  this  flush  of  flowers  already  shed 

Pallor  of  lilies  spread, 

Sad-suited  mignonette, 

Pitiful  violet, 

With  honeysuckle  from  some  cottage  door, 

And  that  remembrancer  of  grief  and  pride, 

The  dusky-purple  pansy  lit  with  gold; 

For  underneath  this  turfed  and  bannered  mold, 

A  woman's  heart  lies  cold, 

A  heart  whose  leaping  pulse  no  Mays  restore» 

In  count  of  battle-slain 

Let  not  our  land  ignore 

The  wifely  bliss,  the  bridal  hope  of  maid, 

But  know  these,  too,  were  unafraid 

And  glory-fain. 


[23] 

Not  to  the  men  alone  this  rite  belongs 

Of  strewments  and  of  songs. 

There  is  no  sex  in  courage  and  in  pain. 

IV 

The  beautiful  of  months,  the  winsome  May, 

Our  yearly  miracle  no  atheisms  wither, 

Is  soon  away. 

Her  dainty  wings  of  orient  feather 

Already  take  the  air. 

Ah,  whither,  whither? 

In  what  star-chamber  wouldst  thou  cloister  thee, 

What  astral  nunnery  austerely  white, 

To  awe  the  rapture  in  thy  rosy  blood, 

To  saint  thy  wild,  capricious  maidenhood? 

O  novice  rare, 

Unruly  acolyte, 

Startling  the  skies  with  bursts  of  lyric  glee, 

With  scent  and  color  of  the  vernal  wood, 

With  such  ecstatic  thrill  of  sweet  New  England  weather 

The  moonbeams  dance  together, 

And  angels  on  the  heavenly  hills 

Fall  harping  unaware 

A  music  like  the  run  of  rills 

And  bird-songs  debonair! 


Let  Heaven  not  trust  thy  tales  too  well, 
O  exquisite  historian ! 
Not  always  may  our  planet  dwell 
Within  thy  smile  aurorean. 


[24] 

Even  now  the  change  is  hinted. 

This  richer-voiced  tune 

Of  birds  more  gayly  tinted, 

This  turf  with  gold  imprinted, 

Are  omens  of  the  June. 

And  yet,  as  symbol  true, 

We  break  to  softly  strew 

Above  our  youth  who  in  their  valor  fell, 

Thine  orchard  blooms  of  evanescent  hue, 

Of  such  ethereal  pink 

As  Ariel  might  sink 

His  folded  plumage  in  for  fairy  cell. 

These  arborous  delicates 

Our  sorrow  consecrates 

To  those  fair  manhoods  broken  in  their  spring, 

Whose  fruitage  is  a  fragrance  blown  abroad 

To  seed  the  happy  sod 

With  peace  and  freedom  for  an  harvesting. 

Their  labor-tide,  that  looked  so  brief, 

Bound  immortality  in  sheaf ; 

The  life  transcends  the  clod ; 

Nor  may  an  earthly  song  aspire  to  tell 

How  blithe  they  tread  the  blessed  asphodel 

Who  garnered  for  the  granaries  of  God. 


VI 


Such  comforts  soothe  the  grief  that  saddens  yet 
Within  the  paean  of  the  Northern  pine; 
But  where  shall  pity  seek  an  anodyne 
For  sorrows  that  the  South  may  not  forget? 


[25] 

From  shattered  cup  and  wasted  wine 

A  perfume  fills  the  air, 

A  scent  that  makes  defeat  divine, 

And  victory  a  prayer. 

There  bides  beyond  the  mist  a  hoar  magician 

Of  patient  eyes  and  art  most  sweet  and  strange. 

We  bring  to  him  our  folly,  our  contrition, 

In  his  alembic  dim  to  undergo  their  change. 

The  secret  of  his  alchemy  who  knows, 

Or  whence  the  jewel  potent  to  refine? 

His  charm  works  even  as  the  lily  blows, 

And  faith  may  neither  further  nor  oppose. 

O  necromancer  old, 

Thou  givest  joy  for  sighing, 

New  life  for  noble  dying. 

Naught  human  is  so  vain 

But  holds  some  goodly  grain 

For  purifying. 

So  take  them,  gentle  Time,  our  manifold 

Losses  and  loves  and  drops  of  bitter  brine ; 

Transmute  our  dross  to  gold. 

ABOVE  THE  BATTLE 

HONOR  and  pity  for  the  smitten  field, 
The  valorous  ranks  mown  down  like  precious  corn, 
Whose  want  must  famish  love  morn  after  morn, 
Till  Death,  the  good  physician,  shall  have  healed 
The  craving  and  the  tearspent  eyelids  sealed. 
Proud  be  the  homes  that  for  each  cannon-torn, 
Encrimsoned  rampart  have  been  left  forlorn ; 
Holy  the  knells  o'er  fallen  patriots  pealed. 


[26] 

But  they,  above  the  battle,  throng  a  space 

Of  starry  silences  and  silver  rest. 

Commingled  ghosts,  they  press  like  brothers  through 
White,  dove-winged  portals,  where  one  Father's  face 

Atones  their  passion,  as  the  ethereal  blue 

Serenes  the  fiery  glows  of  east  and  west. 


AMERICA  TO  ENGLAND 
1899 

WHO  would  trust  England,  let  him  lift  his  eyes 
To  Nelson,  columned  o'er  Trafalgar  Square, 
Her  hieroglyph  of  duty,  written  where 
The  roar  of  traffic  hushes  to  the  skies ; 

Or  mark,  while  Paul's  vast  shadow  softly  lies 

On  Gordon's  statued  sleep,  how  praise  and  prayer 
Flush  through  the  frank  young  faces  clustering  there 
To  con  that  kindred  rune  of  sacrifice. 

O  England,  no  bland  cloud-ship  in  the  blue, 
But  rough  oak  plunging  on  o'er  perilous  jars 
Of  reef  and  ice,  our  faith  will  follow  you 

The  more  for  tempest  roar  that  strains  your  spars 
And  splits  your  canvas,  be  your  helm  but  true, 
Your  courses  shapen  by  the  eternal  stars. 

1900 

The  nightmare  melts  at  last,  and  London  wakes 
To  her  old  habit  of  victorious  ease. 


[27] 

More  men,  and  more,  and  more  for  over-seas, 
More  guns  until  the  giant  hammer  breaks 

That  patriot  folk  whom  even  God  forsakes. 

Shall  not  Great  England  work  her  will  on  these, 
The  foolish  little  nations,  and  appease 
An  angry  shame  that  in  her  memory  aches? 

But  far  beyond  the  fierce-contested  flood, 

The  cannon-planted  pass,  the  shell-torn  town, 
The  last  wild  carnival  of  fire  and  blood, 

Beware,  beware  that  dim  and  awful  Shade, 

Armored  with  Milton's  sword  and  Cromwell's  frown, 
Affronted  Freedom,  of  her  own  betrayed ! 


ENGLAND  TO  AMERICA 

AND  what  of  thee,  O  Lincoln's  Land?    What  gloom 
Is  darkening  above  the  Sunset  Sea? 
Vowed  Champion  of  Liberty,  deplume 
Thy  war-crest,  bow  thy  knee, 
Before  God  answer  thee. 

What  talk  is  thine  of  rebels?     Didst  thou  turn, 
My  very  child,  thy  vaunted  sword  on  me, 
To  scoff  to-day  at  patriot  fires  that  burn 
In  hearts  unbound  to  thee, 
Flames  of  the  Sunset  Sea? 


[28] 
GLORY 

AT  the  crowded  gangway  they  kissed  good-bye. 
He  had  half  a  mind  to  scold  her. 
An  officer's  mother  and  not  keep  dry 
The  epaulet  on  his  shoulder. 

He  had  forgotten  mother  and  fame, 

His  mind  in  a  blood-mist  floated, 
But  when  reeling  back  from  carnage  they  came, 

One  told  him :  "  You  are  promoted !  " 

His  friend  smiled  up  from  the  wet  red  sand, 

The  look  was  afar,  eternal, 
But  he  tried  to  salute  with  his  shattered  hand : 

"  Room  now  for  another  colonel !  " 

Again  he  raged  in  that  lurid  hell 

Where  the  country  he  loved  had  thrown  him. 
"  You  are  promoted !  "  shrieked  a  shell. 

His  mother  would  not  have  known  him. 


PIGEON  POST 

WHITE  wing,  white  wing, 
Lily  of  the  air, 
What  word  dost  bring, 
On  whose  errand  fare? 


[29] 

Red  word,  red  word, 
Snowy  plumes  abhor. 

I,  Christ's  own  bird, 
Do  the  work  of  war. 


o 


THE  PITY  OF  IT 
I.     IN  SOUTH  AFRICA 

VER  the  lonesome  African  plain 

The  stars  look  down,  like  eyes  of  the  slain. 


A  bumping  ride  across  gullies  and  ruts, 
Now  a  grumble  and  now  a  jest, 
A  bit  of  profanity  jolted  out, 

—  Whist! 

Into  a  hornet's  nest ! 

Curse  on  the  scout ! 

Long-bearded  Boers  rising  out  of  the  rocks, 

Rocks  that  already  are  crimson-splashed, 

Ping-ping  of  bullets,  stabbings  and  cuts, 

As  if  hell  hurtled  and  hissed, 

—  Then,  muffling  the  shocks, 
A  sting  in  the  breast, 

A  mist, 

A  woman's  face  down  the  darkness  flashed, 

Rest. 


[30] 

All  as  before,  save  for  still  forms  spread 
Under  the  boulders  dripping  red. 

Over  the  lonesome  African  plain 

The  stars  look  down,  like  eyes  of  the  slain. 

II.     IN  THE  PHILIPPINES 

SILVERY  rice- fields  whisper  wide 
How  for  home  and  freedom  their  owners  died. 

We've  set  the  torch  to  their  bamboo  town, 

And  out  they  come  in  a  scampering  rush, 

Little  brown  men  with  spears. 

Shoot ! 

Down  they  go  in  a  crush, 

Sickening  smears, 

Hideous  writhing  huddles  and  heaps 

Under  the  palms  and  the  mango-trees. 

More,  still  more !     Shoot  'em  down 

Like  brown  jack-rabbits  that  scoot 

With  comical  leaps 

Out  of  the  brush. 

No  loot? 

No  prisoners,  then.    As  for  these  — 

Hush! 

The  flag  that  dreamed  of  delivering 
Shudders  and  droops  like  a  broken  wing. 

Silvery  rice-fields  whisper  wide 

How  for  home  and  freedom  their  owners  died. 


[31] 

BLOOD  ROAD 

THE  Old  Year  groaned  as  he  trudged  away, 
His  guilty  shadow  black  on  the  snow, 
And  the  heart  of  the  glad  New  Year  turned  grey 
At  the  road  Time  bade  him  go. 

"  O  Gaffer  Time,  is  it  blood-road  still? 

Is  the  noontide  dark  as  the  stormy  morn? 
Is  man's  will  yet  as  a  wild  beast's  will? 
When  shall  the  Christ  be  born?  " 

He  laughed  as  he  answered,  grim  Gaffer  Time, 

Whose  laugh  is  sadder  than  all  men's  moan. 
"  That  name  rides  high  on  our  wrath  and  crime, 
For  the  Light  in  darkness  shone. 

"  And  thou,  fair  youngling,  wilt  mend  the  tale?  " 

The  New  Year  stared  on  the  misty  wold, 
Where  at  foot  of  a  cross  all  lustrous  pale 
Men  raged  for  their  gods  of  gold. 

"  Come  back,  Old  Year,  with  thy  burden  bent. 

Come  back  and  settle  thine  own  dark  debt." 
"  Nay,  let  me  haste  where  the  years  repent, 

For  I've  seen  what  I  would  forget." 

"  And  I,  the  first  of  a  stately  train, 

The  tramp  of  a  century  heard  behind, 
Must  I  be  fouled  with  thy  murder-stain? 
Is  there  no  pure  path  to  find?  " 


[32] 


The  Old  Year  sneered  as  he  limped  away 
To  the  place  of  his  penance  dim  and  far. 

The  New  Year  stood  in  the  gates  of  day, 
Crowned  with  the  morning  star. 


THE  GREAT  TWIN  BRETHREN 

THE  battle  will  not  cease 
Till  once  again  on  those  white  steeds  ye  ride, 
O  heaven-descended  Twins, 
Before  humanity's  bewildered  host. 
Our  javelins 
Fly  wide, 

And  idle  is  our  cannon's  boast. 
Lead  us,  triumphant  Brethren,  Love  and  Peace. 

A  fairer  Golden  Fleece 

Our  more  adventurous  Argo  fain  would  seek, 

But  save,  O  Sons  of  Jove, 

Your  blended  light  go  with  us,  vain  employ 

It  were  to  rove 

This  bleak, 

Blind  waste.     To  unimagined  joy 

Guide  us,  immortal  Brethren,  Love  and  Peace. 


[33] 

TO  MY  COUNTRY 

ODEAR  my  Country,  beautiful  and  dear, 
Love  doth  not  darken  sight. 

God  looketh  through  Love's  eyes,  whose  vision  clear 
Beholds  more  flaws  than  keenest  Hate  hath  known. 
Nor  is  Love's  judgment  gentle,  but  austere; 
The  heart  of  Love  must  break  ere  it  condone 
One  stain  upon  the  white. 

There  comes  an  hour  when  on  the  parent  turns 

The  challenge  of  the  child; 
The  bridal  passion  for  perfection  burns; 
Life  gives  her  last  allegiance  to  the  best ; 
Each  sweet  idolatry  the  spirit  spurns, 
Once  more  enfranchised  for  its  starry  quest 

Of  beauty  undefiled. 

Love  must  be  one  with  honor;  yet  to-day 

Love  liveth  by  a  sign; 
Allows  no  lasting  compromise  with  clay, 
But  tends  the  mounting  miracle  of  gold, 
Content  with  service  till  the  bud  make  way 
To  the  rejoicing  sunbeams  that  unfold 

Its  culminant  divine. 

There  is  a  rumoring  among  the  stars, 

A  trouble  in  the  sun. 

Freedom,  most  holy  word,  hath  fallen  at  jars 
With  her  own  deeds;  'tis  Mammon's  jubilee; 


[34] 

Again  the  cross  contends  with  scimitars ; 
The  seraphim  look  down  with  dread  to  see 
Earth's  noblest  hope  undone. 

O  dear  my  Country,  beautiful  and  dear, 

Ultimate  dream  of  Time, 
By  all  thy  millions  longing  to  revere 
A  pure,  august,  authentic  commonweal. 
Climb  to  the  light.     Imperiled  Pioneer 
Of  Brotherhood  among  the  nations,  seal 

Our  faith  with  thy  sublime, 


II 


HOME 

(Feu  THE  OLD  HOME  FESTIVAL  AT  FALMOUTH) 

THERE  is  many  a  whither  away  and  many  a  clarion 
call, 

Many  a  deed  for  the  doing  and  many  a  land  to  roam ; 
There   are    wonder-ways    that    wander   where    ancient 
shadows  fall; 

There  is  only  one  path  home. 


And  green  is  the  path  that  leadeth  to  where  in  life's 

first  days 
Our  hearts  like  the  buds  of  April  to  sun  and  to  wind 

uncurled, 

Taught  by  this  fair  sea-village,  wrapt  in  its  pearly  haze, 
The  beauty  of  the  world. 


It  is  here  that  our  pulses  caught  the  beat  of  the  danc 

ing  earth, 
The  multitudinous  laughter  of  the  violet  waves  at 


That  our  childhood  took  from  the  heart  of  God  the 
gift  of  mirth 

Simply  as  thrushes  may. 

37 


[38] 

It  is  here  that  we  first  saw  sorrow,  here  on  these  rose- 
clad  sands ; 

When  for  her  homing  sailors  the  town  made  jubilee, 
Oh,  the  widow,  the  storm-robbed  mother,  that  stretched 
imploring  hands 

To  the  unappealable  sea ! 

With  the  breath  of  the  pine  and  the  cedar  there  came 

to  our  spirits  here 
The  breath  of  heroic  life  from  the  captains  whose 

voyages  were  done, 

Like  the  bronzed  sweetfern  of  October  proud  in  their 
fading  year, 

Honors  of  manhood  won. 

Here,  too,  where  all  were  neighbors  and  hand  lay  warm 

in  hand, 
Where,  like  our  pink  Mayflower  with  brown  leaves 

heaped  above, 

Plain  ways  hid  finest  feeling,  a  child  might  understand 
The  loveliness  of  love. 

And  like  to  the  salty  flaw  that  would  pierce  the  forest 

scent, 

Beyond  the  sweet  of  the  woods  the  illimitable  brine, 
Ever  there  thrilled  to  us  through  all  human  cherish- 
ment 

Hints  of  the  far  divine. 

Thence  it  came  that,  as  down  the  curve  of  our  wind- 
obeying  cape, 
The  low,  white,  drifted  dunes  are  wavy  like  the  sea, 


[39] 

Early   our  thoughts  were  molded  to   the   unconscious 
shape 

Of  immortality. 

There  is  many  a  shrine  for  pilgrims  —  the   fountain 

that  quenched  our  thirst, 
The  hard-scaled  summit  of  vision,  the  field  of  our 

perilous  strife, 

But  holy  the  awe  that  broodeth  o'er  the  spot  where  we 
tasted  first 

The  sacrament  of  life. 


THE  FALMOUTH  BELL 


NEVER  was  there  lovelier  town 
Than  our  Falmouth  by  the  sea. 
Tender  curves  of  sky  look  down 
On  her  grace  of  knoll  and  lea. 
Sweet  her  nestled  Mayflower  blows 
Ere  from  prouder  haunts  the  spring 
Yet  has  brushed  the  lingering  snows 
With  a  violet-colored  wing. 
Bright  the  autumn  gleams  pervade 
Cranberry  marsh  and  bushy  wold, 
Till  the  children's  mirth  has  made 
Millionaires  in  leaves  of  gold; 
And  upon  her  pleasant  ways, 
Set  with  many  a  gardened  home, 
Flash  through  fret  of  drooping  sprays 
Visions  far  of  ocean  foam. 


[40] 

Happy  bell  of  Paul  Revere, 
Sounding  o'er  such  blest  demesne, 
While  a  hundred  times  the  year 
Weaves  the  round  from  green  to  green. 


Never  were  there  friendlier  folk 
Than  in  Falmouth  by  the  sea, 
Neighbor-households  that  invoke 
Pride  of  sailor-pedigree. 
Here  is  princely  interchange 
Of  the  gifts  of  shore  and  field, 
Starred  with  treasures  rare  and  strange 
That  the  liberal  sea-chests  yield. 
Culture  here  burns  breezy  torch, 
Where  gray  captains,  bronzed  of  neck, 
Tread  their  little  length  of  porch 
With  a  memory  of  the  deck. 
Ah,  and  here  the  tenderest  hearts, 
Here  where  sorrows  sorest  wring, 
And  the  widows  shift  their  parts, 
Comforted  and  comforting. 

Holy  bell  of  Paul  Revere 
Calling  such  to  prayer  and  praise, 
While  a  hundred  times  the  year 
Herds  her  flock  of  faithful  days! 

m 

Greetings  to  thee,  ancient  bell 
Of  our  Falmouth  by  the  sea ! 


[41] 

Answered  by  the  ocean  swell, 
Ring  thy  centuried  Jubilee! 
Like  the  white  sails  of  the  Sound, 
Hast  thou  seen  the  years  drift  by, 
From  the  dreamful,  dim  profound 
To  a  goal  beyond  the  eye. 
Long  thy  maker  lieth  mute, 
Hero  of  a  faded  strife; 
Thou  hast  tolled  from  seed  to  fruit 
Generations  three  of  life. 
Still  thy  mellow  voice  and  clear 
Floats  o'er  land  and  listening  deep, 
And  we  deem  our  fathers  hear 
From  their  shadowy  hill  of  sleep. 

Ring  thy  peals  for  centuries  yet, 
Living  voice  of  Paul  Revere! 
Let  the  future  not  forget 
What  the  past  accounted  dear! 


THE  FALMOUTH  CHURCH 

OUR  fathers,  in  the  years  grown  dim, 
Reared  slowly,  wall  by  wall, 
A  holy  dwelling-place  for  Him 

That  filleth  all  in  all. 
They  wrought  His  house  of  faith  and  prayer, 

The  rainbow  round  the  Throne, 
A  precious  temple  builded  fair 
On  Christ  the  Corner-stone. 


[42] 

The  Angel  of  the  Golden  Reed 

Hath  found  their  measure  strait ; 
He  hears  the  great  Foundation  plead 

For  ampler  wall  and  gate. 
The  living  pillars  of  the  Truth 

Grow  on  from  morn  to  morn, 
And  still  the  heresy  of  youth 

Is  age's  creed  outworn. 

But  steadfast  is  their  inner  shrine 

Wrought  of  the  heart's  fine  gold, 
Its  hunger  and  its  thirst  divine, 

With  jewels  manifold, 
Red  sard  of  pain,  hope's  emerald  gleam, 

White  peace,  no  glory  missed 
Of  righteous  life  and  saintly  dream, 

Jasper  to  amethyst. 

Spirit  of  Truth,  forbid  that  we 

Who  now  God's  temple  are 
And  keep  the  faith  with  minds  more  free, 

Our  father's  fabric  mar. 
Better  than  thoughts  the  stars  that  search 

Is  self  still  sacrificed, 
For  only  Love  can  build  the  church 

Whose  Corner-stone  is  Christ. 


[43] 
INDIAN  BEARERS 


White  was  the  world  as  a  winding-sheet 
The  day  we  buried  Parson  Treat. 

SUNDAY  it  was  as  the  new  days  go, 
That  there  fell  the  first  of  The  Great  March  Snow. 
We  marvelled  that  God  chose  His  holy  morn 
To  empty  the  grains  from  His  hunting-horn, 
Powdering  all  the  soft  Cape  air. 
Deep  was  the  horn  He  emptied  there. 
A  day  and  a  night  came  down  the  snow 
Light  and  idle  as  feathers  blow. 
A  night  and  a  day  it  fleeted  and  flew 
Like  a  swarm  of  white  bees  escaped  from  the  blue, 
Globing  the  cabins  and  furring  the  trees. 
Then  the  spray  on  the  cliffs  set  in  to  freeze, 
And  keen  as  arrows  the  angry  flakes 
Whirled  wild  as  the  foam  when  a  spring-tide  breaks. 
Few,  thereafter,  had  craft  to  tell 
When  the  morning  rose  and  the  even  fell, 
For  the  skies  gloomed  mightily ;  surges  tore 
Ancient  rocks  from  the  shrieking  shore; 
Tall  red  cedars  were  snapt  in  the  gripe 
Of  the  wind,  as  a  foeman  snaps  the  pipe 
That  shall  puff  no  longer  the  smoke  of  peace. 
Men  had  forgotten  that  storm  could  cease, 
When  the  sun  looked  out  through  diamond  sleet 
On  a  world  as  white  as  a  winding  sheet. 


[44] 


That  bitter  gale  from  out  of  the  East 

Bore  our  father's  soul  to  the  White  God's  feast. 

As  far  as  the  reach  of  an  Indian's  gaze 

Shrouded  were  all  the  familiar  ways ; 

New  were  the  hillocks,  the  hollows  were  new; 

Nor  fox  nor  squirrel  had  ventured  through ; 

Never  a  track  nor  a  trace  was  there 

Of  the  little  feet  that  our  wood-paths  share ; 

But  steadily  on  through  that  printless  snow 

We  dug  a  road  for  our  friend  to  go ; 

Through  the  deepest  drifts  we  cut  an  arch 

Six  feet  high  for  the  burial  march; 

The  up-flung  snow,  as  our  rude  spades  ploughed, 

Fanned  out  above  us  a  shimmering  cloud. 

Whenever  a  gust  would  the  pine  groves  thrash 

Till  the  icicles,  thick  on  their  boughs,  would  clash, 

Or  a  snow-laden  fir  give  a  sudden  crack, 

We  started  as  if  his  laugh  came  back ; 

For  a  merry  heart  had  old  Parson  Treat, 

Though  his  voice  was  rough  as  the  blasts  that  meet 

On  the  plains  of  Nauset ;  he  laughed  as  he  died, 

As  his  soul  went  out  on  the  ebb  of  the  tide. 

But  now  by  that  crisped  and  sparkling  road, 

Slowly  we  carried  a  silent  load; 

Through  those  white  arched  tunnels,  with  moccasined 

feet 
We  walked  our  last  by  Parson  Treat. 


[45] 

Crystal-floored  was  the  pond  we  crossed; 
Muffled  with  snow  and  sealed  with  frost 
The  fields  he  loved ;  and  the  grave  below 
Was  draped  in  white  by  the  drifted  snow. 
It  glistened  and  gleamed  in  the  tingling  air ; 
When  we  shut  our  eyes  for  the  white  man's  prayer 
Our  friend  had  taught  us,  we  saw  it  yet. 
It  stung  our  eyes  till  our  eyes  were  wet. 

in 

It  was  love  of  him  that  held  us  tame 

When  every  leaf  whispered  King  Philip9 s  name. 

Long  ago,  when  the  heads  now  hoar 

Slept  in  their  mother's  necks,  our  shore 

Was  sold  to  the  palefaces  ;  long  ago 

Were  set  the  bounds  where  our  fires  might  glow. 

They  came  from  Plymouth,  the  stern  chiefs  seven, 

Friends  of  the  terrible  God  of  Heaven, 

Came  for  the  woods  where  we  loved  to  rove, 

For  our  eight  fresh  ponds  and  our  shellfish  cove. 

They  bought  Namskaket  of  Mettaquason ; 

From  our  sachem  of  Nauset  his  all  they  won 

Save  the  width  of  a  cornfield  out  on  the  Neck 

That  the  great  waves  beat  and  the  soft  foams  fleck. 

But  we  longed  for  the  hunt  as  we  plied  the  tillage ; 

Caged  wolves  were  we  in  our  Indian  village. 

Ever  the  spring  wind  called  to  our  blood, 

And  our  longings  surged  like  the  tide  in  flood; 

But  level  or  upland,  sunny  or  dim, 

The  paleface  deemed  it  was  made  for  him. 


[46] 

Wheresoever  he  found  a  hill, 

He  set  the  sea-wind  tending  his  mill. 

If  we  cut  the  pine-knots  to  make  us  tar, 

Or  dug  us  clams  where  the  beach  stretched  far, 

It  was  trespass  against  the  settlement  law. 

We  were  as  the  mouse  in  the  white  owl's  claw. 

They  felled  our  reaches  of  oak  and  pine  — 

Fools!  for  the  storm-wind,  bitter  with  brine, 

Buffets  the  soil  from  coast  to  coast, 

Wreaking  its  wrath  like  a  foeman's  ghost. 

Wherever  we  went,  whatever  we  did, 

Still  was  the  Indian  checked  and  chid. 

Closer  and  closer  they  marked  our  bounds, 

Driving  us  back  from  the  hunting-grounds 

Where  our  fathers  had  wandered  beneath  the  sun 

Since  first  the  ways  of  the  world  begun. 

They  gave  us  a  portion  of  cod  and  wheat, 

But  the  scorn  of  their  eyes  was  sharp  as  sleet. 

They  burdened  our  hearts  with  strange,  new  shame ; 

Red  faces  were  fair  till  the  paleface  came ; 

And  our  hate  grew  rank  as  the  river-flag  grows, 

Till  when  thirty  winters  were  nigh  their  close, 

They  thought  they  had  store  for  a  minister's  meat, 

And  they  called  our  Eliot,  Parson  Treat. 

Little  by  little  they  eked  it  out, 
What  might  suffice  for  a  soul  devout, 
—  Fifty  pounds  with  upland  and  mead, 
A  share  in  whatever  the  sea  should  breed, 
A  parcel  of  marsh,  a  strip  of  the  shore, 
And  firewood  piled  at  his  cabin  door. 


[47] 

The  wood  was  for  us  to  gather  and  stack, 

And  winter  by  winter  he  knew  no  lack, 

For  he  gave  good  words  and  wise  was  he 

In  the  fashions  of  forest  courtesy ; 

But  when  he  prayed  his  Great  Spirit  to  pour 

Grace  on  the  heathen,  it  puzzled  us  sore. 

Weary  to  us  were  the  white  men's  prayers; 

Unfit  we  were  for  that  heaven  of  theirs ; 

The  redman's  tongue  it  is  hard  to  trim 

Out  of  the  warwhoop  into  the  hymn ; 

The  redman's  muscles  were  made  of  steel 

To  chase  the  game  and  not  to  kneel ; 

Better  the  war  plumes  in  our  hair 

Than  the  trickle  of  holy  water  there: 

Yet  we  hearkened  the  words  our  father  spoke 

And  bowed  our  necks  to  the  White  God's  yoke. 

Oft  have  we  stood  at  the  meeting-house  door 

When  the  Parson's  voice  would  the  seas  out-roar, 

While  the  Cape  children,  lulled  by  stormy  sounds, 

Would  sleep  till  the  tithing-man  went  his  rounds. 

'Twas  a  wonder  to  hear  our  father  shout 

As  he  hammered  the  White  God's  anger  out. 

Yet  in  every  wigwam  his  voice  was  sweet ; 

The  pappooses  nestled  between  his  feet ; 

And  ever  he  soothed  the  sullen  brave, 

And  the  railing  squaw  with  a  smile  forgave ; 

As  soon  as  he  saw  her  black  eyes  flash, 

He  would  tease,  for  a  taste  of  her  succotash. 

The  villages  blithened  when  he  came ; 

We  hung  the  kettle  and  fanned  the  flame. 


[48] 

Ten  mile  afoot  through  the  deepening  sand 
Makes  a  hungry  guest;  then  the  hearty  hand 
He  would  strike  in  ours,  while  from  chest  so  stout 
Ever  the  big  laugh  rumbled  out. 
Reading  and  writing  he  taught  our  young, 
While  he  learned  of  our  elders  the  Nauset  tongue. 
In  the  meeting-house  that  was  twenty  feet  square, 
Thatched  and  loop-holed,  he  taught  us  prayer. 
He  would  bring  the  wild  grapes  of  Monomoyick 
All  the  way  to  Truro's  sick; 
In  Sawkatucket  he  used  to  praise 
First  their  faith  and  then  their  maize. 
From  Pochet  down  to  Provincetown  tip, 
Where  first  was  seen  the  great  winged  ship, 
He  would  trudge  to  strengthen  a  soul  for  flight ; 
He  loved  the  red  as  he  loved  the  white. 

But  oft  in  our  villages  while  we  heard 

Our  father  thunder  the  awful  word, 

Our  hearts  were  stirred  by  a  longing  dim 

That  the  fierce  White  God  were  like  to  him. 

Vessels  of  wrath  we  were,  boomed  he ; 

God  would  torment  our  souls  with  glee; 

Laugh  at  the  helpless  that  cried  for  aid ; 

Mock  the  coward  that  cringed  afraid; 

Much  as  our  sires,  I  ween,  would  make 

Their  mirth  of  a  captive  burned  at  the  stake. 

So  sinners,  he  said,  God  like  briers  would  cast 

Into  a  fire  that  ever  should  last ; 

He  would  make  them  the  butt  of  his  arrows ;  the  weight 

Would  be  heavy  on  them  of  his  endless  hate ; 


[49] 

His  heart  to  their  groans  would  be  harder  than  flint ; 

His  fury  would  never  know  pause  nor  stint ; 

Not  as  a  man  would  he  meet  his  foe, 

But  deal  him  an  omnipotent  blow. 

At  times  he  would  preach  of  a  land  of  love, 

But  left  us  in  scanty  hope  thereof, 

For  from  Roger  Williams  the  word  had  crossed 

That  probably  Indians  all  were  lost. 

As  the  White  God  would,  it  hath  come  to  pass. 
Our  spears  are  blunted ;  our  minds  —  alas !  — 
Are  all  confused  between  wrong  and  right. 
We  loved  our  father ;  we  would  not  fight 
Against  his  people,  not  we,  his  band 
Of  Praying  Indians,  though  the  sand 
Was  hot  with  messengers,  though  there  came 
On  a  stormy  wind  King  Philip's  name. 


IV 


Sons  and  daughters  had  wept  and  gone. 
On  a  rough  new  mound  the  sunset  shone. 

Our  sorrow  was  full  of  undcrcries. 

We  lifted  our  looks  to  the  glowing  skies, 

To  the  beautiful  sun  that  gleamed  so  red, 

The  sun  our  fathers  worshiped; 

For  the  sun  rose  to  us  and  to  us  set 

Ere  ever  the  paleface  came  to  fret 

Our  woods  with  his  axe  and  our  hearts  with  his  law ; 

Good  was  the  world  that  our  fathers  saw. 


[50] 

For  them  their  God  made  the  starlights  burn, 

Sowed  for  their  covert  the  wild  sweet-fern ; 

When  in  heavy  sands  tired  feet  would  sink, 

He  breathed  upon  them  from  Mayflowers  pink. 

But  the  white  man's  God  was  a  foe  to  ours 

Who  grieved  as  the  rain  for  the  broken  flowers, 

But  trembled  like  rain  in  the  blow  of  the  wind. 

Were  our  fathers  granted  their  God  to  find 

In  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds  green  and  free 

Where  they  wander  safe  by  a  wider  sea, 

Too  wide  for  the  white-winged  ships  to  cross? 

Do  they  lie  in  the  moonlight  on  red-cupped  moss 

And  husk  the  corn  with  laughter  and  tale, 

Or  still  doth  the  strong  White  God  prevail? 

There,  as  here,  doth  his  haughty  frown 

Look  strange  on  the  Red  God  and  face  him  down? 

We  were  of  the  best  in  bookman's  wit, 

And  read  the  sermons  the  Parson  writ 

In  a  hamlet  here  or  a  hamlet  there, 

To  the  white  man's  God  prayed  the  white  man's  prayer ; 

But  our  people  wilted  like  corn  in  drought ; 

They  perished  like  fish  when  the  tide  is  out. 

Our  store  of  simples  availed  no  whit, 

Nor  the  white  man's  leech  could  benefit 

The  redman's  ill ;  and  our  father  sighed 

By  the  deerskin  beds  where  his  converts  died. 

And  still,  bewildered  and  strangely  sick, 

We  die  in  Meesham  and  Monomoyick. 

We  die  as  the  autumn  leaves  are  shed 

From  the  oaken  boughs,  poor  tribes  of  red. 


[51] 

The  long  sky-river  our  last  look  views 

Is  crowded  bright  with  our  star-canoes. 

We  know  no  more  than  the  mown  beach-grass 

Or  the  broken  sprays  of  the  sassafras 

Why  we  are  cut  from  the  white  man's  path, 

How  we  have  vexed  his  God  of  Wrath. 

Our  father  told  of  one  far  away 

In  some  unseen  land,  on  some  bygone  day, 

Who  cured  the  sick ;  it  may  be  thus ; 

No  hands  of  healing  are  laid  on  us. 

Strong  is  the  race  of  the  great  White  God, 

But  ours  has  come  to  its  period. 

Our  wigwams  shall  vanish  from  these  our  lands ; 

Our  paths  be  lost  in  the  blowing  sands ; 

Our  tragedy  hidden  in  time's  dim  blur, 

And  only  a  name  be  remembrancer 

That  the  Red  God  once  had  a  people  here. 

Will  they  not  miss  us,  the  fox  and  deer? 

Will  not  cedar  and  juniper. 

Murmur  together  of  days  that  were? 

Will  the  paleface  care,  as  we,  for  these 

Soft  whirrs  of  wings,  and  fragrances, 

Wraiths  of  cloud  that  go  drifting  by 

In  the  pearly-misted  undersky, 

Blush  of  the  brier-rose  when  it  peeps 

From  tangle  of  green  where  a  nestling  cheeps, 

Golden  stems  through  the  April  land, 

And  tawny  Autumn's  enkindling  brand? 


[52] 

We  have  heaped  the  earth  In  the  Parson's  grave ; 

We  have  given  him  love  for  the  love  he  gave ; 

We  have  prayed  the  prayers  that  he  bade  us  pray ; 

Now  we  reach  our  arms  to  the  God  of  Day. 

Our  hearts  are  bitter  and  clamorous. 

Red  Sun,  Red  God,  O  comfort  us! 


THE  SLAVE'S  ESCAPE 

WHITE  lightnings  shuddered  up  the  sky, 
The  thunder  groaned  afar, 
—  Groaned  like  some  wounded  deity 
Of  elemental  war ; 

And  Pomp,  the  slave  that  Deacon  Brown 

So  boasted  him  to  own, 
The  single  slave  in  Truro  town, 

Gave  echo  to  the  groan. 

The  wildest  of  the  poor,  snared  flock 

Of  "  Guinea  blackbirds  "  whom 
Beau  Flash  had  brought  to  Plymouth  Rock, 

He  would  not  bear  his  doom. 

The  vastity  of  waters  bound 

His  spirit  like  a  chain ; 
His  soul  was  maddened  by  the  sound 

Of  that  far-sundering  main. 


[53] 

They  could  not  gentle  him  with  prayer, 

Nor  holy  lore  impart, 
Such  jets  of  anguish  and  despair 

Burst  from  his  smothering  heart. 

Cuffee  of  Barnstable  would  sit 

The  sermon  out  in  dreams 
Of  rainbow-colored  birds  that  flit 

Above  the  Congo  streams ; 

And  Dinah's  master  from  her  sin 

Had  saved  her  ere  he  sold, 
And  into  Bibles  for  his  kin 

Put  Dinah's  price  in  gold. 

But  Pomp  was  as  untamable 

As  jungle  lion;  he 
Would  war  against  the  Christian  spell 

With  pagan  sorcery. 

And  now  the  thunder  and  the  flame 

Were  calling  him  away. 
The  spirit's  craving  overcame 

All  terrors  of  the  clay. 

That  dazzle  in  his  brain  was  hope. 

He  snatched  a  loaf  of  bread, 
A  jug  of  water,  coil  of  rope, 

And  like  a  shadow  fled, 


[54] 

—  Fled  to  his  savage  gods  of  storm 

At  revel  in  the  air, 
Swart  demons  grim  and  multiform 

That  gave  him  welcome  there. 

Still  stands  the  stump  of  that  sad  tree 
Whence  a  Cape  Cod  pilgrim  went 

From  bondage  forth  to  liberty, 
And  home  from  banishment. 


THE  "  SOMERSET  r 

IT  was  a  British  man-of-war, 
With  a  French  fleet  racing  after, 
That  struck  in  her  haste  on  Peaked  Hill  Bar, 
'Mid  the  billows'  rebel  laughter. 

The  hulk  was  their  toy  from  spring  to  fall ; 

Then,  setting  their  shoulders  under, 
They  flung  it  far  up  the  beach  for  all 

Who  were  minded  to  pry  and  plunder. 

Stript  and  mocked  the  Somerset  lay 
On  the  shore  like  a  huddled  giant, 

Frowning  out  on  the  dancing  spray, 
Undauntable,  grim,  defiant. 

But  the  shifting  sands  by  their  lord,  the  wind, 
To  cover  the  wreck  were  bidden, 

Till  the  blackened  timbers  no  eye  could  find, 
Even  from  memory  hidden. 


[55] 

The  life  of  a  century  slipped  away, 

As  all  mortality  passes, 
While  in  hushful  sleep  the  Somerset  lay 

Under  the  coarse  beach-grasses. 

Then  furious  tides  drove  over  the  flat 

And  their  wrath  on  the  white  banks  vented, 

Till  the  old  ship  rose  to  be  wondered  at, 
Photographed,  chipped,  tormented. 

She  lifted  her  sullen,  indignant  head 

And  watched  the  wild  Atlantic, 
Scorning  the  tourists  who  flocked  and  said 

Her  fate  was  "  so  romantic  " ; 

But  never  a  mast  flew  the  Union  Jack, 

And  that  hoary  hull,  encrusted 
With  pearly,  whispering  shells,  dived  back 

Under  the  sand,  disgusted. 

Still  is  she  sulking  beneath  a  dune 

That  dimples  when  winds  are  skittish, 

Shut  away  from  the  sun  and  moon, 
Undauntable,  stubborn,  British. 


[56] 

EPITOME 

A  LONELY  burial-ground  is  on  Cape  Cod. 
Claiming  the  privilege  of  age,  each  stone 
Leans  as  it  will,  its  scarred  front  overflown 
With  winged  cherubic  head.     By  grace  of  God, 

Fulfilled  in  nature's  gentle  period, 

All  ghastly  blazonry  of  skull  and  bone, 

Muffled  in  moss  and  lichen-overgrown 

Hath  made  its  peace  with  beauty.     Seldom  trod 

These  grasses  are,  where,  ghosts  of  old  regret, 
Once-tended  vines  run  wild,  but  should  a  guest 
Stoop  there,  this  weathered  epitaph  to  trace, 

'Twill  whisper  him  of  all  the  human  race. 
Here  lies,  beneath  a  heartsease  coverlet, 
"  Patience,  wife  of  Experience,"  at  rest. 


Ill 


THE  IDEAL 

BY  the  promise  of  noon's  blue  splendor  in  the  dawn's 
first  silvery  gleam, 
By  the  song  of  the  sea  that  compelleth  the  path  of  the 

rock-cleaving  stream, 

I  summon  thee,  recreant  dreamer,  to  rise  and  follow 
thy  dream. 

In  the  inmost  core  of  thy  being  I  am  a  burning  fire, 
From  thine  own  altar-flame  kindled  in  the  hour  when 

souls  aspire, 
For  know  that  men's  prayers  shall  be  answered,  and 

guard  thy  spirit's  desire. 

That  which  thou  wouldst  be  thou  must  be,  that  which 

thou  shalt  be  thou  art ; 
As  the  oak,  astir  in  the  acorn,  the  dull  earth  rendeth 

apart, 
Lo,  thou,  the  seed  of  thy  longing,  that  breaketh  and 

waketh  the  heart. 

I  am  the  cry  of  the  night  wind,  startling  thy  traitorous 

sleep ; 
Moaning  I  echo  thy  music,  and  e'en  while  thou  boastest 

to  reap 
Alien  harvests,  my  anger  resounds  from  the  vehement 

deep. 


[60] 

I  am  the  solitude  folding  thy  soul  in  a  sudden  embrace. 
Faint  waxes  the  voice  of  thy  fellow,  wan  the  light  on 

his  face. 
Life  is  as  cloud-drift  about  thee  alone  in  shelterless 

space. 

I  am  the  drawn  sword  barring  the  lanes  thy  mutinous 

feet 

Vainly  covet  for  greenness.    Loitering  pace  or  fleet, 
Thine  is  the  crag-path  chosen.     On  the  crest  shall  rest 

be  sweet. 

I  am  thy  strong  consoler,  when  the  desolate  human  pain 
Darkens  upon  thee,  the  azure  outblotted  by  rush  of  the 

rain. 
All  thou  dost  cherish  may  perish ;  still  shall  thy  quest 

remain. 

Call  me  thy  foe  in  thy  passion;  claim  me  in  peace  for 

thy  friend; 
Yet  bethink  thee  by  lowland  and  upland,  wherever  thou 

wiliest  to  wend, 
I  am  thine  Angel  of  Judgment;  mine  eyes  thou  must 

meet  in  the  end. 


[61] 

CAPE  OF  GOOD  HOPE 

"And  by  this  cape  goe  the  Portingales  to  their  spicerie" 

CABO  Tormentoso  the  sailors  called  it  first, 
And  Stormy  Cape  all  mariners  shall  find  it  ever 
more. 

The  passion  of  the  hurricane  on  its  iron  rocks  is  nursed, 

Veering  winds  of  huge  desire  that  thwart  the  plunging 
barque. 

Pale  witch-fires  glisten  on  the  wave  and  beacon  from 
the  shore, 

And  shipwrecked  voices  bid  beware  of  gramarye  ac 
curst. 

Cape  of  Good  Hope !  We  seek  it  far  across  the  waters 
dark, 

But  Cabo  Tormentoso  the  sailors  named  it  first. 

By  this  wild  cape  the  mariners  go  to  their  spicerie, 

Weather-wasted  mariners  writh  dreaming,  dreaming 
eyes. 

Behind  them  toss  the  sullen  leagues  of  monster-haunted 
sea; 

Before  them,  oh,  before  them  lift  the  breathing  groves 
of  mace, 

Nard  and  clove  and  cinnamon,  where  fragrance  never 
dies, 

Where  amber  balsam  drips  from  the  flame-shaped  In 
cense  Tree. 

Cape  of  Good  Hope!  Year  in,  year  out,  the  reckless 
sailor-race 

Throw  scorn  upon  your  tempests  for  a  waft  of  spicerie. 


[62] 

CARPE  DIEM 

/Tp  HROUGH  all  the  blithe,  expectant  day, 

•*•      His  will  was  dull,  his  heart  was  gray. 
From  eastern  flush  to  western  flame 
Without  a  strife  or  dream  he  came. 

Beauty  had  called,  and  he  was  mute, 
Yet  myriad  beauty  would  not  cease, 

Until  he  threw  away  his  lute, 
Because  it  chided  peace. 

About  him  on  the  tufted  moss 
Lay  the  spent  bearers  of  the  cross, 
And  reapers  faint  from  harvest  stress. 
He  envied  them  their  weariness. 

Though  chants,  intoned  in  fragrant  air, 
Rose  from  the  woodland  hermitage, 

He  had  no  sin  to  passion  prayer, 
Nor  any  thirst  to  assuage. 

He  puzzled  all  the  seraphim 

Sent  to  lament  or  laurel  him, 

For  his  shield  undinted  was  and  fair, 

Yet  the  sunset  would  not  dazzle  there. 


[63] 

DREAM  AND  DEED 

WHAT  of  the  deed  without  the  dream?     A  song 
Reft  of  its  music,  and  a  scentless  rose. 
Except  the  heart  outsoar  the  hand,  the  throng 
Will  bless  thee  little  for  thy  labor-throes. 

The  dream  without  the  deed?     Dawn's  fairy  gold, 
Paled,  ere  it  wake  the  hills,  to  misty  gray. 

Except  the  hand  obey  the  heart,  behold, 
Thy  grieved  angel  turns  his  face  away. 


H 


OPPORTUNITY 

•  ADST  thou  but  wist  the  bright 

Way  of  my  swift,  sure  feet, 
Pauseless  in  noon  and  night, 

Frost  and  heat, 
Thou  wert  not  fearful  now  my  flash  of  steel  to  meet. 

When  like  a  new-lit  star 

Sprang  thy  soul  from  the  mist, 
On  the  brooding  hills  afar 

— Hadst  thou  but  wist! — 
I  waved  my  sword  and  sped  to  keep  the  battle-tryst. 

What  though  on  turf  and  moss 

Soft  was  my  footing  set, 
With  cedar-shade  across? 

Didst  forget? 
No  forest-waft  went  by  without  its  thrill  and  threat. 


[64] 

Couldst  thou  retrace  thy  road, 
Strife  were  better  than  palm. 

More  wouldst  thou  prize  the  goad 

Than  the  balm, 
Imperious  stress  of  storm  than  citron-scented  calm. 

Still  while,  faithless  of  doom, 
Revel  was  thine  and  sleep, 
Over  briar  and  bloom, 

Smooth  and  steep, 
On  to  our  destined  hour  I  swept  as  sea-winds  sweep. 

Lo !  we  are  face  to  face, 

And  that  face  of  thine  is  white. 
Look  not  to  me  for  grace, 

Draw  and  smite, 

Nor  dare  one  prayer  save  this:    May  God  defend  the 
right ! 


BEYOND  THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  RAINBOW 

BEYOND  the  pillars  of  the  rainbow  lies 
Hy  Brasil,  holy  island  of  the  skies, 
Where  all  our  dream-ships  moor  in  happy  havens, 
Where  all  our  questions  meet  divine  replies. 

The  baffled  longing  that,  one  weary  day, 
Upon  a  wind  of  sighs  was  blown  away, 

A  feathered  seed,  pursued  by  greedy  ravens, 
The  watchful  birds  that  make  our  hopes  their  prey, 


[65] 

Found  lodgment  there  and  in  the  stillness  grew 
A  cedar  tree  whose  summit  pricks  the  blue, 
Whose  level  shadow  cherishes  a  gracious 
Sequestered  space  of  greenery  and  dew. 

The  solid  earth  is  false  and  cheats  our  eyes 
With  Druid  mist  and  magical  disguise. 

Only  our  Dreamland,  holy  and  veracious, 
Beyond  the  pillars  of  the  rainbow  lies. 


THE  POET 

OF  fairyland  his  foot  is  free, 
And  with  a  seraph  sword 
He  keeps  for  sons  of  mystery 
That  garden  of  the  Lord; 

Dim  realm  where  all  this  earth's  misrul/5 

Is  glamoured  into  grace, 
Where  pilgrims  of  the  Beautiful 

Behold  her  solemn  face; 

That  garden  walled  with  ancient  awe, 
Where  the  dreamer  walks  apart; 

That  fire  to  which  the  world  is  straw, 
Land  of  the  Living  Heart. 


[66] 

SUCCESS 

HE  who  would  rear  a  palace  for  his  pride 
Oft  feasted  in  its  halls,  though  none  remain. 
Who  dreamed  to  lift  to  God  a  perfect  fane 
Sculptured  one  deathless  pillar  ere  he  died. 

THE  TREE  OF  SONG 

AN  idle  tree,  whose  timber  builds  no  ships, 
Whose  wilding  growth  is  all  unfit  to  trace 
Trim  parallels  in  park  and  market-place, 
Yet  precious  for  the  fragrant  dew  that  drips 

From  blowing  sprays  to  comfort  fevered  lips, 
For  lilt  of  hidden  birds,  for  changeful  grace 
Of  leafy  shade  that  sunbeams  interlace, 
For  heaven's  dear  blue  about  the  spiring  tips. 

The  world's  great  highway  takes  no  heed  of  it, 

Though  paths  wind  thither  through  the  April  green. 
The  earth's  blind  forces  feel  no  need  of  it ; 

Yet  was  there  shaped,  before  the  shaping  hours, 
A  subtle  league  and  sympathy  between 
This  rhythmic  tree  and  all  effectual  powers. 

POETRY 

OH,  we  who  know  thee  know  we  know  thee  not, 
Thou  Soul  of  Beauty,  thou  Essential  Grace ! 
Yet  undeterred  by  baffled  speech  and  thought, 
The  heart  stakes  all  upon  thy  hidden  face. 


[67] 

SUNRISE  IN  THE  LIBRARY 

THE  ivory  light,  untinged  by  faintest  rose, 
But  pale  as  any  nun  arisen  chill 
And  stealing  up  dim  aisles  to  lift  her  palms 
In  orison  to  Mary's  marble  knee, 
So  blanched,  so  hushed  and  holy,  glided  in 
Our  casements,  spreading  o'er  the  waiting  walls 
Till  all  the  lofty,  long,  beloved  room 
Came  glimmering  out  into  a  dream  of  day. 
The  carven  walnut  of  the  balconies, 
The  browns  and  crimsons  of  the  volumed  shelves 
On  every  side  revealing  mellow  tints, 
The  chandeliers  in  azure  draperies, 
The  colored  pennons  on  their  leaning  staffs, 
The  long,  green  tables,  and  the  careless  chairs, 
Glad  faces  framed  in  gold,  majestic  busts 
Whiter  than  white  beneath  the  crismal  dawn, 
The  windows  lucent  'tween  their  polished  bars, 
The  gleaming  panels  and  the  glittering  shields, 
All  quietly  reclaimed  from  melting  dusk 
Their  lines  and  lustres,  waxing  bright  as  if 
The  spirits  of  the  dead  glowed  through  the  books 
And  shed  a  shining  down  their  festal  hall. 

AT  THE  LAYING  OF  THE  CORNER-STONE 

HERE  shall  the  walls  be  wrought 
And  the  stately  fabric  gleam, 
A  court  for  the  kings  of  thought 
And  the  emperors  of  dream. 


[68] 

Though  the  forms  they  wore  are  gone 
Like  shadow  of  flying  bird, 

Their  spirits  are  clothed  upon 
With  the  immortal  word. 

Here  the  laurelled  brotherhood, 

Like  the  stars  in  primal  dance, 
Shall  praise  what  God  found  good, 

With  golden  iterance; 
And  the  sages  from  east  and  west, 

And  the  prophets  of  burning  lip, 
Shall  welcome  us  to  the  test 

Of  their  great  fellowship. 

Here  shall  be  garnered  the  fruit 

Of  the  mystical  cosmic  tree 
That  gropes  with  its  craving  root 

Where  the  waters  of  wisdom  be ; 
And  the  burden  of  hearts  that  broke 

Neath  the  oracles  too  sublime, 
And  lore  of  the  nameless  folk, 

The  treasure-trove  of  time. 

Here  shall  clarion  voices  call 

The  crescent  soul  to  joy, 
And  hands  of  healing  fall 

On  feverish  annoy; 
Visions  shall  come  and  go 

On  the  dreaming  eyes  of  youth, 
And  here  shall  her  chosen  know 

The  countenance  of  Truth. 


[69] 

MUSARUM  SACERDOS 

WHO  called  himself  your  priest,  Immortal  Choir? 
Not  Dante,  though  in  ruddiest  altar-flame 
He  plunged  his  torch,  and  bore  it  through  the  shame 
Of  deepening  hell  to  domes  of  starry  fire, 

In  steadfast  temple-service.     Not  that  sire 
Of  glorious  chant,  our  Milton,  he  who  came 
With  solemn  tread  and  vestments  purged  from  blame 
To  swing  the  censer  of  divine  desire. 

But  Horace,  sipping  at  your  crystal  spring 
As  lightly  as  he  quaffed  his  Sabine  wine, 
Caught  up  that  lute,  about  whose  golden  string 

The  rose  and  myrtle  he  was  deft  to  twine, 
And  sweetly  sang,  in  pauses  of  the  feast : 
"  The  poet  is  the  gods'  anointed  priest." 

DAN  CHAUCER 

"  O  most  sacred  happie  Spirit !  " 

Spenser's  Faerie  Queene,  IV,  2,  34. 

HAPPY?     Was  not  the  poet's  hydromel 
By  many  a  drop  of  bitterness  profaned? 
Doth  no  autumnal  disenchantment  dwell 
In  that  calm  wisdom  by  his  eld  attained? 

Ah,  but  this  laureate  of  England's  prime, 

This  golden-throat,  drank  joy  from  deeper  springs 

Than  penury's  pursuing  wolves  could  grime 
Or  winter  frost  beneath  enshadowing  wings. 


[70] 

For  when,  his  sprite  with  "  glad  devocioun  "  fraught, 
He  knelt,  May  morn,  on  tender  English  sod 

To  see  the  daisy  spread,  his  pulses  caught 

The  rapturous  rhythm  of  the  Heart  of  God; 

And  strangely  would  we  wrong  the  Heart  Divine, 
Wherefrom  pure  mirth  derives  her  sweet  employ, 

To  canonize  but  by  the  sorrow-sign 
And  miss  the  primal  sanctity  of  joy. 

"  Most  sacred  happie  Spirit,"  enter  in, 

With  all  thy  train,  amid  the  sainted  souls. 

Till  bird  and  blossom  and  the  sunbeam  sin, 
What  angel  shall  contest  your  aureoles? 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

ON   HEARING  HIM   EEAD   HIS  POEMS  IN   BOSTON 

A    STRANGER,  schooled  to  gentle  arts, 
-**•      He  stept  before  the  curious  throng; 
His  path  into  our  waiting  hearts 
Already  paved  by  song. 

Full  well  we  knew  his  choristers, 

Whose  plaintive  voices  haunt  our  rest, 

Those  sable-vested  harbingers 
Of  melancholy  guest. 

We  smiled  on  him  for  love  of  these, 
With  eyes  that  swift  grew  dim  to  scan 

Beneath  the  veil  of  courteous  ease 
The  faith-forsaken  man. 


[71] 

To  his  wan  gaze  the  weary  shows 
And  fashions  of  our  vain  estate, 

Our  shallow  pain  and  false  repose, 
Our  barren  love  and  hate, 

Are  shadows  in  a  land  of  graves, 

Where  creeds,  the  bubbles  of  a  dream, 

Flash  each  and  fade,  like  melting  waves 
Upon  a  moonlight  stream. 

Yet  loyal  to  his  own  despair, 
Erect  beneath  a  darkened  sky, 

He  deems  the  austerest  truth  more  fair 
Than  any  gracious  lie ; 

And  stands,  heroic,  patient,  sage, 

With  hopeless  hands  that  bind  the  sheaf, 

Claiming  God's  work  without  His  wage, 
The  bard  of  unbelief. 


IBSEN 

DO  you  fling  down  his  book  in  a  passion? 
"  That  speech  beside  Shakespeare's !  "     Ah,  but. 
While  you  cavil  the  nutshell's  fashion, 
Is  there  nothing  to  say  of  the  nut? 

"  By  the  bitter  taste  of  the  kernel, 

'Tis  poison."    Shall  we,  our  feet 
So  new  in  the  fields  eternal, 

Pronounce  on  bitter  and  sweet? 


[72] 

Yet  bitter  may  purify  rotten, 

And  this  taste  that  offends  the  tooth 

Be  just  what  the  world  has  forgotten, 
The  pungent  flavor  of  truth. 


TO  SHELLEY 


HEARING  the  autumnal  wind,  I  muse  on  thee, 
O  Shelley,  bird  of  most  aerial  note, 
Whose  songs  came  pulsing  from  a  kindred  throat, 
As  passionate,  impetuous  and  free, 

As  sudden-shrill  with  visionary  glee, 

And  hoarse  with  human  agonies  which  smote 
Thy  gentlest  heart  till  it  would  fain  devote 
Its  music  unto  man's  captivity, 

Singing  the  day  when  wrath  and  pride  and  fear, 
With  the  spectral  troop  of  their  unholy  kind, 
Shall  melt  in  love,  as  shadows  disappear 

Before  the  sun ;  to  evil  unresigned, 
Urging  the  nobler  discontent  I  hear 
In  all  these  restless  voices  of  the  wind. 


n 

The  summer  comes  again,  by  vale  and  hill 
With  blossoms  fashioning  her  fragrant  way ; 
But  thou,  the  child  of  summer,  to  the  day 
Art  long  unknown,  and  all  thy  steps  are  still. 


[73] 

In  summer  thou  wert  born,  and  didst  fulfill 
Thy  scanty  urn  of  years  while  summer  spray 
Whitened  the  shores  where  thy  mute  image  lay 
Robbed  of  its  poet.     Hence  the  summers  will 

Seek  thee  in  vain.     The  eye  that  watched  the  cloud 
Hath  locked  its  sight  beneath  the  fallen  lid ; 
The  ear  that  heard  the  skylark's  note  is  vowed 

To  a  perpetual  quiet.     Thou  art  hid 

Beyond  the  summers,  and  thy  name  belongs 
But  to  a  ceaseless  melody  of  songs. 


LONGFELLOW:     IN  MEMORIAM 

ALAS,  our  harp  of  harps !  the  instrument 
On  whose  fine  strings  the  nymph  Parnassus-bred 
Played  ever  most  melodiously,  is  rent, 
And  all  the  music  fled. 

Alas,  our  torch  of  truth!  the  lofty  light 
That  yet  a  tender  household  radiance  cast, 
And  made  the  cottage  as  the  palace  bright, 
Is  blotted  out  at  last. 

Alas,  the  sweet  pure  life,  that  ripened  still 
To  holier  thought  and  more  benignant  grace, 
Hath  spread  its  wings,  and  who  is  left  to  fill 
The  dear  and  empty  place? 

How  poor  thou  art,  O  bleak  Atlantic  coast ! 
How  barren  all  thy  hills,  my  mother-land! 


[74] 

Where  now  amid  the  nations  is  thy  boast, 
And  where  thy  Delphic  band  ? 

Of  that  bright  group  who  sang  amid  thy  wheat, 
And  cheered  thy  reapers  lest  their  brown  arms  tire, 
Whom  ermined  Europe  raised  a  hand  to  greet, 
As  princes  of  the  lyre, 

The  first  have  fallen,  and  the  others  wait, 
The  snow  of  years  on  each  beloved  head, 
With  weary  feet  before  the  sunset  gate 
That  opens  toward  the  Dead. 

And  who  abides  to  sing  away  our  pain, 
As  these  our  bards  we  carry  to  their  rest? 
We  need  thy  comfort  for  the  tears  that  rain, 
0  poet,  on  thy  breast. 

It  is  our  earth,  where  prophet  steps  grow  few, 
For  which  we  weep,  and  not,  O  harper  gray, 
For  thee,  who  caroled  from  the  morning  dew 
To  noontide  of  the  day, 

Nor  left  thy  task  when  twilight  down  the  wall 
Stole  silently  in  shadowy  flakes  and  bars, 
And  whose  clear  tones,  while  night  enfolded  all, 
Sang  on  beneath  the  stars. 

The  knights  and  dames  had  bent  their  heads  to  list, 
The  serving-maids  were  hearkening  from  the  stair, 
And  little  childish  faces,  mother-kissed, 
Had  flocked  about  thy  chair, 


[75] 

When  ceased  thy  fingers  in  the  strings  to  weave, 
O'er  thine  anointed  sight  the  eyelids  fell; 
And  thou  wert  sleeping,  who  from  dawn  to  eve 
Hadst  wrought  so  wondrous  well. 

O  gentle  minstrel,  may  thy  rest  be  deep 
And  tranquil,  as  thy  working-tide  was  long. 
Our  lonely  hearts  will  grudge  thee  not  thy  sleep, 
Who  grudged  us  not  thy  song. 


THE  PASSING  OF  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

IT  was  little  for  her  to  die, 
For  her  to  whom  breath  was  prayer, 
For  her  who  had  long  put  by 

Earth-desire ; 

Who  had  knelt  in  the  Holy  Place 
And  had  drunk  the  incense-air, 
Till  her  soul  to  seek  God's  face 
Leapt  like  fire. 

It  was  only  to  slip  her  free 

Of  the  vestal  raiment  worn 
O'er  the  lengthening  lily  lea 

Toward  the  west, 
For  a  robe  more  lustrous  white 

By  the  sunset  spirits  borne 
From  mansions  jewel-bright 
Of  her  rest. 


[76] 

It  was  only  to  shift  her  clime, 

Clinging  still  to  the  harp  of  gold, 
Fairy-gift  of  her  cradle-time, 

Angel-gift, 
Of  a  strain  so  thrilling  rare 

We  shall  hunger  on  earthly  wold 
And  listen  if  down  the  air 
Echoes  drift. 

It  was  little  for  her  to  pass 

From  this  storm-sea,  well  sufficed 
With  celestial  sea  of  glass, 

Sea  of  sky ; 
To  change  the  dream  and  the  spur 

For  the  truth,  the  goal,  the  Christ. 
Oh,  but  it  was  for  her 
Much  to  die. 


SWINBURNE 

SEA- WIND  and  wave  should  chant  thy  requiem, 
The  harmonic  surges  toll  thy  passing-bell, 
For  thou,  hushed  Poet,  wert  akin  to  them ; 
Thy  songs  alone  their  music  parallel. 


[77] 

IN  THE  POETS'  CORNER 
(R.  B.;E.  B.  B.) 

DO  they  hold  converse,  keen  as  wine 
Under  the  pavement,  they 
Who  make,  in  truth,  the  royal  line 
Of  England,  kings  by  right  divine, 
Crowned  with  the  bay? 

Yet  one  is  lonely  in  that  great, 

Rejoicing  fellowship, 
—  Lonely  with  Chaucer  for  a  mate, 
And  Spenser,  Dreamland's  laureate. 

He  hears  the  drip 

Of  Florence  dews  upon  a  mound 

That  golden  tides  of  spring 
Mantle  with  bloom,  the  angel-sound 
Of  nightingales  that  all  around 
Her  silence  sing. 

ON  THE  GOLD  COASTS 

"  We  gave  the  tragedie  of  Hamlett." 

AY,  we  were  there  at  the  last, 
What  tempest  and  fever  had  left, 
For  our  consort  capsized  in  the  blast 
That  shivered  our  sail  as  a  weft 


[78] 

Of  the  gossamer ;  ay,  we  were  there, 
Wan,  scurvy-bit  bodies  a  score, 

And  souls  as  cloudy  with  care 
As  Hamlet's  at  Elsinore. 

On  those  dazzling  stretches  of  sand 

The  sick  fell  into  a  chafe, 
For  their  thoughts  sought  home  to  the  land 

Of  shadow  and  rain.     "  Vouchsafe, 
Sweet  Will,  that  thy  spells  outwear 

Their  dolor,  as  oft  before." 
And  my  sea-gown  I  girded  fair 

For  Hamlet  at  Elsinore. 

Our  ghost  he  was  lean  at  the  best, 

And  his  kingship  keen  for  the  wine, 
But  Ophelia's  taffeta  vest 

Bore  blazon  of  tar  and  brine. 
Tressed  she  her  sailor  hair 

With  weed  from  the  ocean  floor, 
And  tuned  on  that  savage  air 

Old  snatches  of  Elsinore. 

By  the  clear  of  the  moon  we  played, 

Till  the  lads  unfretted  their  brows, 
Comforted  as  with  the  shade 

Of  beeches,  where  red  kine  drowse 
In  the  English  lanes.     Was  still 

A  flagon  of  ale  —  no  more  — 
And  we  drained  it  to  Gentle  Will, 

And  to  Hamlet  of  Elsinore. 


[79] 


APRIL  23nD,  1564 

A   MEMORY,  like  a  zephyr,  wandered  through 
-tV  The  colonnades  of  Heaven  and,  at  request, 
Will  Shakespeare  reared  a  cloudy  stage  and  set 
His  plays  —  sore  shamed  they  were  —  once  more  to  do 
Their  ancient  office.     All  the  angels  praised, 
But  in  the  shelter  of  their  wings  confessed 
One  to  another  that  the  tricksy  sport, 
Frenzies  and  furies  and  the  shock  of  fray, 
Perplexed  their  white,  serene  intelligence. 
The  highest  ranks  of  the  redeemed  stood  dazed, 
But  half  remembering  their  mortality, 
Rapture  of  love,  pain's  fierce  reality, 
In  those  far  aeons  ere  earth  flamed  away. 
Only  the  hardly-saved,  the  devil-torn, 
The  ruddy  fringe  of  that  ethereal  court, 
Saints  by  the  hairsbreadth,  felt  their  lashes  wet, 
Sobbed  out  and  shook  when  stormy  Lear  went  crazed, 
Threw  asphodels  to  Rosalind,  grew  tense 
With  Hamlet's  terror  and,  at  end,  their  bliss 
Sweeter  within  them  for  the  taste  of  this, 
Surprised  their  harpstrings  with  a  gold  acclaim, 
A  paean  for  that  misty  English  morn 
While  yet  Time  dwelt  with  Space,  when  softly  came 
The  miracle,  —  when,  an  unheeded  name, 
Shakespeare  was  born. 


[80] 


THE  GUEST 

A    POET  crossed  our  sterile  lands 
That  blossomed  as  he  came. 
Like  men  benumbed  who  spread  their  hands 

Against  a  cordial  flame, 
We  clustered  to  that  burning  soul. 

Our  spirits,  sick  and  dim, 
Touched  his  vesture  and  were  whole, 
Such  virtue  flowed  from  him. 

Our  words  fell  faintly  on  his  ears, 

For  in  a  druid  mist 
He  moved  'mid  mortal  hopes  and  fears 

To  some  diviner  tryst. 
Hearkening  through  the  human  press 

To  a  far,  ethereal  tone, 
He  made  the  crowd  his  wilderness, 

Surrounded  and  alone. 


[81] 

POETA  POETARUM 
(To  M.  P.  G.) 

WHAT  news,  Beloved,  from  thy  native  hills, 
What  tuneful  tidings  from  the  Hills  of  Dream? 
Does  dim  old  Merlin  follow  yet  the  Gleam? 
Do  climbers  still  forget  all  mortal  ills, 
Even  the  lapsing  of  life's  little  stream? 

The  waves  and  billows  have  gone  over  thee ; 
Thy  precious  things  have  fed  the  insatiate  brine. 
Still  on  the  heights  thy  changeless  beacons  shine 
Above  the  furthest  reaches  of  the  sea, 
Thine  altar-glow  invincibly  divine. 

The  meads  and  valleys  ring  with  viol  and  lute, 
With  harp  and  dulcimer  and  soft  citole ; 
The  music  leaps  from  blossoming  knoll  to  knoll; 
But  on  the  naked  peak  the  dreams  are  mute, 
And  undistinguishable  song  from  soul. 


IV 


WHAT  IS  THE  SPIRIT? 


w 


HAT  is  the  spirit?     Nay, 
We  know  not  —  star  in  clay. 


We  know  not,  yet  we  trust 
The  dream  within  the  dust. 

We  trust  not,  yet  we  hark 
The  song  within  the  dark. 

ii 

These  few  bewildered  days 
Ask  little  blame  or  praise. 

* 
All  mortal  deeds  go  by 

As  cloudlets  down  the  sky. 

We  are  our  longing.     Thus 
Let  Love  remember  us. 

HI 

We  know  not  whither  beat 
Its  wings,  nor  what  defeat 

85 


[86] 

Death's  mighty  muffling  glooms 
May  cast  on  fluttering  plumes, 

Or  if  it  be  success  — 
That  folded  quietness. 

IV 

When  like  a  flaming  scroll 
Earth  shrivels,  if  the  soul 

Should  those  fierce  heats  outwear, 
What  of  ourselves  were  there? 

A  longing  bruised  and  dim, 
A  seed  of  seraphim. 


LOGIC 

SINCE  hunger  is,  bread  needs  must  be. 
Man  begs  from  West  to  East, 
And  starved  on  human  charity 
Looks  for  celestial  feast. 

Sublimely  inconvincible, 
,    When  earth  his  claim  denies, 
When  flint  and  thorn  his  foot  repel, 
He  arrogates  the  skies. 


[87] 

TO  TRUTH 

/CELESTIAL  Truth,  most  beauteous,  most  austere, 
V^     White-flaming  Spirit,  take  this  homage-song 
Of  one  who  seeketh  thee  now  many  a  year 

Life's  paven  ways  and  woodland  paths  along. 
Thou  know'st  how  oft  the  heart  is  faint  for  fear 

To  lose  thy  trace  amid  the  eddying  throng, 
How  oft  the  dewdrop  neighbors  with  the  tear 

On  moss  and  heather  where  the  foot  went  wrong. 

Ah,  how  may  darkness  comprehend  the  light, 

And  how  should  I,  enmeshed  and  clouded  so 
In  multitudinous  error,  view  aright 

Thy  radiant  visage  and  its  glory  know? 
For  subtile  filaments  of  falsehood  blight 

The  pattern  fair  whereto  my  deeds  would  grow. 
And  still  their  fruits  are  bitter  in  despite 

Of  all  this  groping  of  the  roots  below. 

Well  might  my  quest  despair  of  thee,  shouldst  thou 

Despair  of  it,  but  still  my  haunted  days, 
By  each  mysterious  leafage  of  the  bough, 

And  ashes  blanched  by  the  escaping  blaze, 
By  lure  of  singing  waves  before  the  prow, 

And  sunset  runes  in  sard  and  chrysoprase, 
Awake  the  bosom  Sphinx,  renew  the  vow, 

And  once  again  illume  the  wistful  gaze. 

For  even  here  thy  beams  encompass  me, 
Tortured  and  solaced  by  the  happy  pain 

To  feel  the  effulgence  that  I  may  not  see 
Divinely  fret  the  shadow  and  the  stain. 


[88] 

Still  let  me  love  thy  light,  though  long  it  be 
I  wander  blind  amid  the  pilgrim  train. 

If  there  is  patience  in  eternity, 

Thy  votary  shall  find  thy  healing  fane. 


THE  GIFTS  OF  LIFE 

T?  NFOLDING  love,  as  life  were  one  caress, 
-•— '      Is  baby-fee.     For  childhood,  rosy  glow 

Of  blithe,  adventurous  blood.     For  youth,  the  throe 

And  ecstasy  of  passion  masterless. 
For  manhood  and  for  womanhood,  the  stress 

Of  long  day-labor,  till,  forwearied  so, 

With  quiet  eyes  we  watch  the  shadows  grow. 

Tears  for  the  dead  and  dark  forgetfulness. 
These  are  thy  gifts,  O  Life !  fair  gifts  and  sweet, 

And  each  in  its  appointed  hour  is  best, 

Yet  incomplete  and  worse  than  incomplete, 
A  mock,  a  horror,  save  indeed  thou  be 

What  saints  have  trusted  and  what  sages  guessed, 

The  veiled  angel  Immortality. 


AVALON 

THE  rosary  of  life  holds  many  days, 
And  some  are  pearl  and  coral,  gold  are  some, 
Enchanted  opal,  heavenly  chrysoprase, 
But  on  the  fatal  thread  anon  there  come 
Swart  amulets  the  lips  wax  pale  to  kiss, 


[89] 

Days  when  the  world  hath  faded  from  its  bliss 
And  all  the  merry  music  gone  amiss. 
Ay,  life  is  sweet,  but  ever  and  anon 
The  spent  heart  cries  on  Avalon, 
Avalon. 

For  oh,  the  ravin  of  this  shadowy  wood, 
The  stain  upon  the  sweetest  songster's  bill! 
The  treason  of  this  murmurous  river-flood, 
Whose  silvery  course  along  the  valley  still, 
The  trustful  valley  tranced  in  sunset  rose, 
Breathes  stealthy  poison  and  consuming  woes ! 
In  the  blithe  eyes  of  Pan  a  horror  grows. 
Beauteous  is  earth,  but  ever  and  anon 
The  pierced  heart  cries  on  Avalon, 
Avalon. 

And  woe  is  me  for  labor  that  is  loss, 
For  truth  the  seed  locked  in  a  fossil  lie, 
And  woe  of  woes  for  love  whose  martyr-cross 
Is  wrought  from  wood  of  Eden  spicery. 
A  Voice,  a  Voice  to  read  life's  runic  scroll ! 
But  from  the  hollow  places  of  the  soul 
Only  her  own  fantastic  echoes  roll. 
Man  lives  by  God,  but  ever  and  anon 
The  starved  heart  cries  on  Avalon, 
Avalon. 


[90] 


THE  REMONSTRANCE 

WEARY  of  life?    But  what  if  death 
To  new  confusion  bids? 
Who  knows  if  labor  ends  with  breath, 
Or  tears  with  folded  lids  ? 

The  spirit  still  may  miss  of  rest, 

Though  oft  the  daisies  blow 
Above  the  hushed  and  darkened  breast 

Shut  close  from  sun  and  snow. 

Those  halls,  all  curiously  planned, 
Lie  void,  but  whither  thence 

Hath  fled  the  tenant?     Shall  the  wand 
Of  peace  her  dews  dispense 

In  equal  share  to  hearts  that  beat 

Undaunted  till  the  even, 
And  rebels  whose  unbidden  feet 

Would  storm  the  heights  of  heaven? 

Perchance  no  soul  shall  taste  of  sleep 

Until  its  task  be  sped. 
The  charge  the  living  failed  to  keep 

Goes  over  to  the  dead. 

One  perfect  and  mysterious  Will 
Threads  all  this  mortal  maze, 

And  calls  each  human  voice  to  fill 
Harmonic  note  of  praise. 


[91] 

The  shadowy,  as  the  sunlit  hours, 

That  holy  Will  confess. 
Death  holds  no  secret  slumber-bowers 

For  our  unfaithfulness. 

Then  while  the  morning  still  is  fair, 
The  earth-winds  o'er  thee  play, 

Speed  on  the  Master's  work,  and  bear 
The  burden  of  thy  day. 

Ay,  welcome  each  new  toil  and  pain, 

The  fiery  angels  sent 
To  teach  our  harps  their  golden  strain 

While  yet  in  banishment ; 

Lest  e'en  for  thee,  whose  steps  may  roam 

Far  in  some  tangled  glade, 
When  all  the  sons  of  God  flock  home, 

The  feast  should  be  delayed. 

For,  oh!  too  long,  too  long  we  fare 

Without  our  Father's  gate. 
"  Thy  kingdom  come !  "  is  all  our  prayer, 
And  still  it  cometh  late. 


Not  wrath,  dear  Lord,  Thy  mercy  seals. 

Our  own  unrighteous  hands 
Hold  back  Thy  shining  chariot-wheels, 

And  rob  the  wistful  lands. 


[92] 

For  none  shall  walk  in  perfect  white 

Till  every  soul  be  clean ; 
So  close  for  sorrow  and  delight 

These  human  spirits  lean. 

But  thou  go  forth  and  do  thy  deed, 

In  forest  and  in  town, 
Nor  sigh  for  ease,  while  pain  and  need 

Are  plucking  at  thy  gown. 

And  thus,  when  bitter  turneth  sweet, 

And  every  heart  is  blest, 
Perchance  to  thee  God's  hand  shall  mete 

His  unimagined  rest. 


"  COME  UNTO  ME  " 

WE  labor,  and  are  heavy-laden.     Where 
Shall  we  find  rest  unto  our  souls?    We  bleed 
On  thorn  and  flint,  and  rove  in  pilgrim  weed 
From  shrine  to  shrine,  but  comfort  is  not  there. 

What  went  we  out  into  thy  desert  bare, 
O  Human  Life,  to  see?    Thy  greenest  reed 
Is  Love,  unmighty  for  our  utmost  need, 
And  shaken  with  the  wind  of  our  despair. 

A  voice  from  heaven  like  dew  on  Hermon  falleth, 
That  voice  whose  passion  paled  the  olive  leaf 
In  thy  dusk  aisles,  Gethsemane,  thou  blest 

Of  gardens.     'Tis  the  Man  of  Sorrows  calleth, 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  and  acquaint  with  grief: 
"  Come  unto  Me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 


[93] 


ON  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

ON  Christmas  Eve,  so  runs  the  marvellous  tale, 
Heaven  once  flashed  through  her  amethystine  veil, 
And  while  this  raptured  earth  beheld  and  heard 
Those  star-eclipsing  choirs,  the  Eternal  Word 
Put  on  our  flesh  to  bear  our  human  bale. 

Faint  with  the  sweets  such  sanctities  exhale, 
Deep-brooding  Doubt  lets  fall  his  winnowing  flail, 
And  feels  his  weary  heart  divinely  stirred 
On  Christmas  Eve. 

For  sudden  lustres  play  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
The  silence  thrills  to  music,  mothers  pale 
Smile  like  Madonnas,  and  the  Christ,  unblurred 
By  mists  of  time,  unslain,  unsepulchred, 
Life's  cup  re-consecrates  to  Holy  Grail 
On  Christmas  Eve. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM 

OFTLY  I  come  into  the  dance  of  the  spheres, 
Into  the  choir  of  lights, 
New  from  my  nest  in  God's  heart. 
O  Night,  the  chosen  of  nights, 
Longing  and  dream  of  the  years, 
Blessed  thou  art. 


[94] 

Golden  the  fruit  hangs  on  the  hyaline  tree; 
Golden  the  glistening  tide 

Sweeps  through  the  heavens ;  the  cars 
Of  the  great  mooned  planets  glide 
Golden  ;  and  yet  to  me 

Bow  down  the  stars ; 

Casting  their  crowns,  bright  with  aeonian  reigns, 
Under  the  flight  of  my  feet 

Eager  for  Bethlehem, 
Thither  with  music-beat 
Blent  of  innumerous  strains 
Marshalling  them. 

Sweetly  their  chant  soars  through  unsearchable  space, 
Quivering  vespers  that  thrill 

Into  the  deep  nocturne, 
Symphony  I  fulfill, 
I  who  like  Mary's  face 
Wonder  and  yearn, 

Cherish,  adore,  keeping  the  watch  above 
The  Word  made  flesh  to-night, 
Wonderful  Word  impearled 
In  childhood  holy-white, 
Word  that  is  Godhood,  Love, 
Light  of  the  World. 


[95] 
THE  KINGS  OF  THE  EAST 


Kings  of  the  East  are  riding 
A        To-night  to  Bethlehem. 
The  sunset  glows  dividing, 
The  Kings  of  the  East  are  riding; 
A  star  their  journey  guiding, 

Gleaming  with  gold  and  gem 
The  Kings  of  the  East  are  riding 
To-night  to  Bethlehem. 


To  a  strange  sweet  harp  of  Zion 
The  starry  host  troops  forth; 

The  golden-glaived  Orion 

To  a  strange  sweet  harp  of  Zion ; 

The  Archer  and  the  Lion, 
The  Watcher  of  the  North ; 

To  a  strange  sweet  harp  of  Zion 
The  starry  host  troops  forth. 

in 

There  beams  above  a  manger 
The  child-face  of  a  star; 

Amid  the  stars  a  stranger, 

It  beams  above  a  manger ; 

What  means  this  ether-ranger 

To  pause  where  poor  folk  are? 
'There  beams  above  a  manger 
The  child-face  of  a  star. 


[96] 

THE  NEW  JERUSALEM 

WHEN  the  birds  have  hushed  their  choirs, 
Through  the  sunset's  rifted  fires, 
Like  a  queenly  diadem 
Gleam  afar  the  golden  spires 
Of  the  New  Jerusalem. 

Thorny  be  our  path  and  sterile, 
There  is  rest  from  pain  and  peril 

Where,  with  many  a  flashing  gem, 
Jasper,  chrysolite  and  beryl, 

Shines  the  new  Jerusalem. 

Not  for  these  my  heart  beats  faster, 
But  for  her  ascended  Master. 

Oh,  to  touch  His  garment's  hem 
In  the  courts  of  alabaster, 

In  the  New  Jerusalem! 


NOCTURNE 

love  of  the  world  it  slides  away. 
-•-       God  send  us  quietness ! 
The  night  is  stiller  than  the  day, 

And  though  the  light  be  less 
White  stars  are  gleaming  from  the  deep 

And  purple  vast  of  sky. 
The  road  unto  the  stars  is  steep, 
But  dreams  may  fly. 


[97] 

The  stillness  of  the  night  is  kind, 

And  when  the  stars  wax  few 
There  steals  upon  the  cheek  a  wind 

Of  sweetness  and  of  dew. 
Slumber  advances  and  recedes 

In  delicate  caprice 
That  life  may  learn  how  much  it  needs 

And  longs  for  peace. 

The  dulcimer  of  patience  hath 

A  music  all  its  own ; 
Outwearing  joy  and  grief  and  wrath, 

A  tender  monotone 
To  soothe  us  till  o'er  sense  and  sprite 

The  enshadowing  hush  is  drawn, 
And  down  the  solemn  tides  of  night 

We  drift  toward  dawn. 


SLEEP 

I   LAY  me  down  before  the  rustic  gate 
That  opens  on  the  shadowed  land  of  sleep; 
I  famish  for  its  dews,  and  may  not  wait 

To  hear  its  rivers  flowing,  drowsy-deep. 
I  knock,  O  Sleep,  the  Comforter !    Again 

My  weakness  faints  unto  thy  great  caress; 
The  circling  thought  beats  blindly  through  the  brain 
With  dull  persistency  of  barren  pain, 

And  draws  uncertain  doubting  and  distress, 

To  prove  that  man  unto  himself  is  very  weariness. 


[98] 

Upon  these  withered  grasses  is  no  rest ; 

Thy  crimson-dotted  mosses  are  denied. 
I  see  thy  wall  in  shining  grapevines  dressed, 

But  know  that  only  on  the  further  side 
Droop  low  the  purple  clusters.     Take  me  in ! 

I  do  not  fear  to  trust  myself  to  thee ; 
Waking  and  danger  are  of  closer  kin, 
But  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  grief  or  sin? 

Imprisoned  from  myself,  I  wander  free, 

And  no  resplendent  sun  of  noon  grants  such  security. 

I  would  not  lie  to-night  so  near  the  bars, 
If  to  thy  realm  fair  entrance  I  may  find, 

That  through  them  I  might  see  our  mortal  stars, 
And  hear  the  passing  of  our  earthly  wind. 

Not  even  would  I  wish  some  gentle  friend 
To  lean  against  them  with  a  loving  face ; 

For  rest  and  life  were  never  willed  to  blend ; 

And  as  I  watched  the  day  unto  its  end, 

So  would  I  sleep  the  night  without  a  trace, 

Not  only  of  day's  grievousness,  but  even  of  its  grace. 

Spread  not  my  couch  within  thy  garden  beds, 

Where  fairy  forms  from  out  the  blossoms  glance, 

And  catch  the  yellow  moonlight  on  their  heads, 
To  shift  it  swiftly  in  the  swaying  dance ; 

Nor  wrap  my  limbs  in  thine  enchanted  cloak 
Beneath  the  tree  whose  hollow  shadows  teem 

With  changing  faces  of  fantastic  folk, 

And  dim,  dissolving  shapes, —  thy  wizard  oak 
Whose  every  leaf  conceals  a  fabled  dream, 
Whose  dipping  boughs  disturb  thy  hushed  and  holy 
stream. 


[99] 

But  take  me  to  thy  kingdom's  very  heart, 
O  solemn  Sleep,  with  thee  alone  to  dwell. 

In  deepest  grotto  hide  me,  far  apart 

From  tone  or  touch,  and  guard  mine  eyelids  well. 

Yea,  charm  the  weary  senses  deaf  and  blind, 
And  let  me  there  lie  face  to  face  with  thee. 

So  shall  the  morning  cleave  the  clouds  to  find 

Thy  fragrance  clinging  to  my  waking  mind; 
But  what  thy  lips  did  whisper  unto  me 
I'll  bear  too   fine   for  consciousness,   too   deep   for 
memory. 


Then  call  my  footsteps  in,  0  silent  warden, 

For  even  as  I  plead,  night  waxes  late. 
Call  me  to  rest  within  thy  holy  garden, 

And  lift  the  latches  of  the  rustic  gate. 
Others  have  won  where  I  may  not  avail, 

Childhood  and  age  by  countless  millions  pass ; 
Yea,  guilty  feet  tread  on  where  mine  must  fail, 
For  thou  art  kind  as  death.    The  faces  pale 

Of  myriad  sleepers  gleam  in  thy  sweet  grass, 

And  only  I  am  left  without  to  weep  and  cry,  Alas! 


Yet  thou  wilt  take  me  in  with  all  the  rest, 
And  walk  among  us  in  thine  angelhood ; 

And  we  shall  wake,  and  know  we  have  been  blessed, 
If  unaware,  and  that  thy  presence  stood 

In  mercy  by  each  weary  son  of  earth, 

To  make  us  spirit  sons  of  God  once  more. 


[100] 

With  plenty  wilt  thou  satisfy  the  dearth, 
With  strength  the  weakness,  and  another  birth 
Shall  each  white  dawn  unto  our  souls  restore, — 
The  gate  by  which  we  leave  thy  land,  a  new  life's 
open  door. 


THE  PRAYER 


IVER  of  all  perfect  gifts, 
"    Hear  the  prayer  my  spirit  lifts; 
Not  for  morning  to  dispense 
More  delicious  frankincense, 
Nor  for  sweeter  woodland  tunes 
Through  the  dreamy  afternoons, 
While  the  shadows  shift  across 
Tender  slopes  of  tufted  moss, 
Nor  more  magic  on  the  sea, 
By  the  changeful  clouds'  decree 
Mystic  gray  or  flashing  green, 
Or  superb  in  azure  sheen. 
From  her  beauty-haunted  days 
But  for  this  the  spirit  prays, 
For  the  ken  more  poet-clear, 
Keener  eye  and  subtler  ear. 

Cries  the  soul  for  truth?     Behold 
Here  the  sages'  leaves  unrolled, 
Luminous  with  golden  light 
Genius-wrested  from  the  night. 


[101] 

Ere  the  open  scroll  thou  con 
Vex  not  heaven  with  orison 
That  an  angel  break  for  thee 
Seals  of  higher  mystery. 
This,  O  spirit,  be  thy  boon, 
Swifter  sense  to  read  the  rune 
From  the  ages'  passion  wrought 
And  their  deep,  slow-laboring  thought, 
Or  to  trace  in  dewy-wet 
Veinings  of  the  violet, 
Moon-led  tide  or  melting  cliff, 
Nature's  patient  hieroglyph. 

Great  All-Giver,  find  we  still 
In  the  limits  of  Thy  will 
Life's  abundant  garden-space, 
Balm  and  spice  and  blossom-grace. 
What  though  blooms  surpassing  fair 
Far  above  us  flush  the  air? 
Let  the  clamorous  heart  admit 
How  the  vine  too  high  for  it 
Daily  on  its  pathway  strows 
Scented  leaves  of  summer  rose, 
And  beware  the  heedless  tread 
And  the  grace  uncherished. 
From  her  joy-enfolded  days 
Only  this  the  spirit  prays, 
But  for  this  her  cry  she  lifts, 
Power  to  grasp  thy  perfect  gifts. 


[102] 


THE  EMPTY  ROOM 

a  fable  of  the  East, 
Oft  by  grave-eyed  merchants  told, 
Resting  for  their  frugal  feast, 
Dates  and  fountain-water  cold, 
Underneath  the  shadow  calm 
Of  the  palm. 

Once  a  sage  of  sages,  bowed 

By  the  griefs  of  many  years, 
Led  two  young  disciples,  vowed 
Unto  truth  beyond  their  peers, 
To  an  empty  room.     Surprise 
Lit  their  eyes. 

Unto  each  he  gave  a  coin, 

While  they  waited,  fain  to  do 
What  the  master  might  enjoin. 
Tremulous  his  words  and  few: 

"  Spend  the  gold  and  fill  the  bare 
Chamber  there." 

Sped  the  first  with  eager  feet 

To  the  gay  bazaars  and  bought 
What  he  deemed  most  rich  and  meet, 
Woods  and  stuffs  full  deftly  wrought; 
But  not  all  their  costly  grace 
Filled  the  space. 


[103] 

Musing  deep  in  earnest  breast, 

Through  the  mart  his  fellow  passed 
And  a  candle  bought:  the  rest 
Of  the  gold  as  alms  he  cast ; 
For  the  room  his  candle  bright 
Filled  with  light. 

Quoth  the  sage :   "  By  this  once  more 

Teach  I,  ere  my  voice  is  still, 
Vanity  of  earthly  store. 
Only  Allah's  love  can  fill 

These  our  empty  hearts.     I  cease, 
Go  in  peace." 


OVERHEARD 

THE  dial  in  my  meadow 
Quoth  wisely  to  the  night: 
"  There  would  be  no  shadow, 
If  there  were  no  light." 

To  the  loom,  at  rise  of  sun, 
The  dancing  shuttle  said: 
"  For  a  web  begun, 

God  will  send  the  thread." 

Trudging  through  the  snow, 

The  staff  outsang  the  blast: 
"  Patience  had  far  to  go, 

But  she  was  crowned  at  last." 


[104] 

"A  GOOD  HEART  BREAKS  BAD  LUCK  " 

IF  one  of  us  two  must  break, 
The  luck  that  seeded  my  sky 
With  stars  malign,  or  this  heart  of  mine, 
I  swear  it  shan't  be  I. 

He  has  pain  and  age  at  his  back, 

Crosses  and  frets  enough; 
I  have  laughter  and  love  and  a  spirit  of 

Unconquerable  stuff. 

He  has  flouted  my  every  step 

All  day  on  the  windy  wold ; 
A  knave  in  grain,  he  has  blurred  my  brain 

And  fooled  me  with  fairy-gold. 

All  wrestle-stained  I  shall  come 
To  the  inn  where  the  journey  ends, 

With  an  empty  scrip,  but  a  song  on  my  lip 
That  may  happen  to  make  amends. 

QUOTH  MARCUS  AURELIUS 

BRIEF  is  the  sliding  time  allotted  thee  for  breath. 
Live  as  on  a  mountain.    Let  men  behold  a  Man. 
If  they  cannot  suffer  him,  let  them  deal  him  death. 
Better  to  climb  and  die  than  plod  in  that  dull  cara 
van. 


[105] 


GODWARD 

OUR  angels  are  importunate. 
When  we  will  not  keep  the  path 
For  any  gleam  of  golden  gate 
Nor  chant  of  cloudy  choir, 
A  stinging  grief  they  use  for  goad. 

Their  love  is  sharp  as  wrath. 
They  scourge  us  up  the  heavenly  road 
With  whips  of  woven  fire. 


THANKSGIVING 

TO  give  God  thanks  when  brief,  oblivious  nights 
The  tranquil  eve  and  blithesome  morning  part, 
Easy  as  bird-song  that.     But  how  when  smites 
The  mace  of  sorrow,  stings  the  malice-dart? 
Ah,  unbelieving  heart ! 

To  give  God  thanks  in  words  —  this  is  not  hard ; 

But  incense 'of  the  spirit  —  to  distill 
From  hour  to  hour  the  cassia  and  the  nard 

Of  fragrant  life,  his  praises  to  fulfill? 
Alas,  inconstant  will! 


[106] 

ANOTHER  YEAR 

EARTH  giveth  unto  us 
Another  year 
Miraculous 

Her  beauty  to  behold, 
New  dawns  of  rose  and 
New  starlights  to  enfold 
Our  dreaming  sphere. 

Love  giveth  unto  us 

Another  year 

Of  marvellous 

Ointments  for  weary  feet, 

A  shadow  from  the  heat, 

Home  welcomes  and  hearth-sweet 

Communion  dear. 

Christ  giveth  unto  us 
Another  year 
Of  burdenous 

Tasks  blessed  for  His  sake, 
World's  pity  to  awake, 
To  bind  up  hearts  that  break 
Beside  us  here. 

Hope  giveth  unto  us 

Another  year 

Adventurous 

To  follow  the  climbing  Good, 

By  thorn  and  beast  withstood, 

To  heights  of  brotherhood, 

Through  dim  to  clear. 


[107] 

God  giveth  unto  us 

Another  year 

All  luminous 

With  Him,  our  shining  Source, 

Divine,  redeeming  Force, 

Of  life's  bewildered  course 

Still  charioteer. 


FELICES 

WE  count  them  happy  who  have  richly  known 
The  sweets  of  life,  the  sunshine  on  the  hills, 
The  mosses  in  the  valley,  love  that  fills 
The  heart  with  tears  as  fragrant  as  thine  own, 

O  tender  moonlight  lily,  over-blown, 
When  the  inevitable  season  wills, 
By  gentle  winds  beside  thy  native  rills  — 
We  count  them  happy,  yet  not  these  alone. 

There  is  a  Crown  of  Thorns,  Way  of  the  Cross, 
Consuming  Fire  that  burns  the  spirit  pure. 
By  luster  of  the  gold  set  free  from  dross, 

By  light  of  heaven  seen  best  through  earth's  obscure, 
By  the  exceeding  gain  that  waits  on  loss  — 
Behold,  we  count  them  happy  who  endure. 


NON  NOBIS  SOLUM 


N 


OT  for  ourselves  alone! 
The  universal  tone 
Of  Nature  thus  our  poor  self-seeking  chideth. 


[108] 

There  lives  no  blossom  that  in  chalice  hideth 
Her  scent,  no  star  but  his  faint  gleam  divideth 

With  leaf  and  wayside  stone. 

Not  for  ourselves  alone! 


Not  for  ourselves  alone! 

Beneath  God's  burning  throne 

The  ethereal  soul  was  clothed  with  form  and  feeling 
To  work  some  earthly  task  of  cheer  or  healing, 
Strike  out  some  spark  of  noble  deeds,  revealing 

The  flame  whence  all  are  blown. 

Not  for  ourselves  alone! 

Not  for  ourselves  alone! 

The  seeds  our  hands  have  sown 
Shall  yield  their  harvest  to  a  younger  reaper. 
We  battle,  heirs  of  many  a  churchyard  sleeper, 
For   scions   to   come,   whose   sworded   thoughts   strike 
deeper 

Than  any  we  have  known. 

Not  for  ourselves  alone! 


Not  for  ourselves  alone! 

O  spirit,  overgrown 

With  tangled  wrongs  and  strange  confusions,  bruising 
The  wings  of  thy  first  faith,  take  courage,  losing 
Thyself  to  find  thyself,  in  patience  choosing 

This  watchword  as  thine  own, — 

Not  for  ourselves  alone! 


[109] 

CHEER  BY  THE  WAY 

ONLY  a  flaming  west 
Through  the  forest  stems  of  pine, 
And  clamorous  day-thoughts  sink  to  rest ; 
The  soul  is  again  divine. 

Only  a  generous  deed, 

The  gleam  of  a  noble  glance, 

And  the  freshened  heart  fares  on  to  speed 
The  world's  deliverance. 


THOU  KNOWEST 

A"pHOU  knowest,  Thou  Who  art  the  soul  of  all 
•*-        Selfless  endeavor,  how  I  longed  to  make 
This  deed  of  mine,  adventured  for  love's  sake, 
Thy  deed, —  sweet  grapes  upon  a  sunny  wall, 

A  rose  whose  petals  into  fragrance  fall, 

A  glint  of  heaven  glassed  in  some  lonely  lake 
Amidst  the  heather  and  the  fringing  brake, 
Our  secret, —  ah,  Thou  knowest. 

Though  it  call 

Only  for  pardon,  still  to  Thee  I  bring 

My  poor,  shamed  deed  that  craved  the  Beautiful, 
-  To  Thee,  the  Master-Artist,  Who  alone 

Wilt  of  Thy  grace  see  in  this  graceless  thing 
The  pattern  marred  by  the  imperfect  tool, 
And  know  that  dim,  wronged  pattern  for  Thine  Own. 


[110] 

STREWING  THE  GOLDEN  GRAIN 

OTREWING  the  golden  grain, 
^-J   Sowing  for  sun  or  rain; 

Shall  this  suffice  that  the  soul  may  eat? 

There  is  whiter  bread  than  is  made  from  wheat. 

Ah,  for  the  irksome  deed 

Time  plucks  up  as  a  weed! 
But  myrtle  and  lily  and  balsam  leaf, 
How  came  these  in  our  harvest  sheaf? 

'Tis  our  angels  softly  go 

After  us  down  the  row, 
And  the  broken  hope  and  the  hidden  need 
Sow  in  our  furrows  for  beauty  seed. 

SUNDAY  IN  THE  CONSERVATORY 

THE  bells  are  ringing  for  church, 
Brother  Canary, 
You  twinkler  from  perch  to  perch, 

Curious,  wary, 
Flickering  ball  of  fluff, 
Topaz  and  sober  buff, 
As  the  sun  and  shadow  take  turns 
Kissing  your  cage  in  the  ferns, 
Captive  Canary. 


[Ill] 

When  the  wild  birds  dip  to  the  pane, 

Would  you  not  follow, 
—  Spent  with  their  southward  strain, 

Grackle  and  swallow? 
A  flutter  their  swift  flight  brings, 
Tremor  to  timid  wings, 
To  the  fragile  daffodil  plumes 
A  longing  for  tropic  blooms, 
Longing  to  follow. 


Nay,  yours  is  a  sky  of  glass, 

Startled  Canary. 
Those  are  but  dreams  that  pass, 

Airy  vagary. 

Stretch  your  glistening  neck 
To  the  celery-leaf  and  peck. 
Yellow  your  roof  of  bars ; 
What  more  do  you  know  of  the  stars, 

Brother  Canary? 


What  more?  oh,  the  music  he  flings, 

Sudden  as  fire! 
The  pulse  of  his  prisoned  wings, 

Their  thwarted  desire, 
Throbs  in  each  mounting  note, 
And  the  bliss  of  him,  angel-throat, 
From  the  dancing  orchids  soars 
Till  his  tiny  heart  adores 

In  the  golden  choir. 


[112] 

Let  us  be  church-mates  to-day, 
Brother  Canary, 

—  Playmates,  as  bird-folk  say. 
Do  the  words  vary? 

Little  Laughter  of  God, 

Twinkling  from  rod  to  rod, 

Star  embodied  in  fluff, 

Song  is  sermon  enough, 
Holy  Canary. 


THE  TRINITY 

HER   prayer-books   had   repose. 
One  word  her  heart  sufficed, 
Scent  of  a  hidden  rose: 
"Christ!" 

To  creeds  her  soul  was  shut, 

For  her  confession  of 
The  Christian  faith  was  but 
Love. 

She  craved  no  temple  wall ; 
Between  the  sky  and  sod 
Her  happy  world  was  all 
God 


[113] 

THE  OPTIMIST 

THE  world's  wild  strife  and  change 
He  sees  against  a  far  horizon-line 
As  shadows  marshaled  by  a  music  strange 
To  goal  divine. 

He  laughs  while  love  and  death 

Are  breaking  mighty  hearts,  while  Mammon  jeers, 
He  laughs  a  quiet  laugh  that  echoeth 
The  crystal  spheres. 

If  men  of  bitter  lip 

Deride  him,  still  the  dancing  children  share 
His  secret,  and  the  golden  willow-tip 
In  April  air, 

—  Secret  that  shall  surprise 

Doomsday  to  festival  when  through  earth's  dreams 
Of  sorrow,  pain,  defeat,  and  sacrifice, 
The  glory  gleams. 


OUR  LADY'S  TUMBLER 

ON  a  leaf  that  waits  but  a  breath  to  crumble 
Is  written  this  legend  of  fair  Clairvaux, 
How  once  at  the  abbey  gates  stood  humble 

A  carle  more  supple  than  beechen  bow, 
And  they  cloistered  him,  though  to  dance  and  tumble 
Was  all  the  lore  he  had  wit  to  know. 


[114] 

He  had  never  a  vesper  hymn  nor  matin, 

Pater-noster  nor  credo  learned; 
111  had  the  wood-birds  taught  him  Latin, 

But  to  every  wayside  cross  he  turned, 
And  Cur  Lady  of  Val  wore  cloth  of  satin 

Because  of  the  gold  his  gambols  earned. 

So  they  cloistered  him  at  his  heart's  desire, 
Though  never  a  stave  could  he  tone  aright. 

With  shame  and  grief  was  his  soul  afire 
To  stand  in  the  solemn  candle  light 

Abashed  and  mute  before  priest  and  choir 
And  the  little  lark-voiced  acolyte. 

Of  penance  and  vigil  he  was  not  chary, 
With  bitter  rods  was  his  body  whipt ; 

Yet  his  heart,  like  a  stag's,  was  wild  and  wary, 
Till  at  last,  one  morn,  from  the  mass  he  slipt 

And  hied  him  down  to  a  shrine  of  Mary 
Deep  in  the  dusk  of  the  pillared  crypt. 

"  Ah,  beauteous  Lady,"  he  cried,  imploring 
The  image  whose  face  in  the  gloom  was  wan. 

"  Let  me  work  what  I  may  for  thine  adoring, 

Though  less  than  the  least  of  thy  clergeons  can 

But  here  thou  art  lonely,  while  chants  are  soaring 
In  the  church  above ;  and  a  dancing  man 

Might  do  thee  disport."    Then  he  girt  him  neatly 

And  vaulted  before  her  the  vault  of  Champagne. 
On  his  head  and  hands  he  tumbled  featly, 


[115] 

Did  the  Aragon  twirl  and  the  leap  of  Lorraine, 
Till  the  Queen  of  Heaven's  dim  lips  smiled  sweetly 
As  she  watched  his  joyance  of  toil  and  pain. 

Ay,  even  so  long  as  the  high  mass  lasted 
He  plied  his  art  in  that  darksome  place, 

And  never  again  he  scourged  nor  fasted 
His  eager  body  whose  lissome  grace 

Cheered  Our  Lady  till  years  had  wasted 
The  dancer's  force,  and  he  drooped  apace. 

And  once,  when  the  buds  were  bright  on  the  larches 
And  the  young  wind  whispered  of  violets, 

He  came  like  a  wounded  knight  who  marches 

To  the  tomb  of  Christ.     With  striving  and  sweats 

He  made  there  under  those  sombre  arches 
The  Roman  spring  and  the  vault  of  Metz. 

Then  he  could  no  more  and,  with  hand  uplifted, 

Saluted  Our  Lady  and  fell  to  earth, 
Where  the  monks  discovered  his  corse  all  drifted 

Over  with  blooms  of  celestial  birth ; 
For  when  human  worship  at  last  is  sifted, 

Our  best  is  labor  and  love  and  mirth. 


V 


THE  PRAISE  OF  NATURE 


O  MOTHER  NATURE,  look  upon  thine  own! 
From  men  and  cities  and  the  thronging  ways 
We  come  to  fall  before  thy  gracious  throne 

In  this  deep  solitude,  where  thou  wilt  raise 
Our  burdened  hearts,  bewildered  with  the  bliss 
And  changing  anguish  of  tumultuous  days, 

To  thy  pure  heights  of  peace.    Ah,  mother,  kiss 
The  fever  from  our  lips  that  lost  their  song 
When  they  forgot  thy  touch,  as  seabirds  miss 

The  passion  of  their  wings  when  human  wrong 
Hath  borne  them  inland  from  their  natal  spray. 
Calm  goddess,  speak  thy  word  that  maketh  strong, 

While  o'er  our  wearied  brows  light  shadows  play, 
Dropt  from  the  leaves  that  fleck  the  azure  day. 

n 

Lo,  the  delight  of  Nature !    Ye  who  feel 
Yourselves  but  slaves  beneath  the  blind  control 
Of  Circumstance,  and  bear  his  insolent  heel 
119 


[120] 

On  your  submissive  necks,  who  yield  the  soul 
To  the  despondent  hour  that  wasteth  it, 
Forgetting  how  on  rude  and  paltry  scroll 

Fair  signs  and  sacred  words  may  yet  be  writ, 
Come  to  our  joyous  mother!     Where  she  leads 
Her  fleecy  streamlets  down  the  hillsides,  sit 


And  let  the  dawning  wind  that  wakes  the  reeds 
Refresh  your  heavy  lids,  whilst  ye  behold 
How  sunshine  revels  in  the  lowliest  weeds, 

And  only  human  growths  refuse  to  fold 
In  narrow  cups  their  heritage  of  gold. 


in 


And  ye  who  bow  before  the  Commonplace, — 
A  generous  peasant,  but  a  clownish  king, — 
Return  to  Nature,  till  the  oldtime  grace 

Flow  once  again  from  that  sequestered  spring, 

Deep  in  the  dim  recesses  of  the  heart, 

Where  each  man  hides  a  poet.    Would  ye  bring 

Food  to  his  famished  lips,  forsake  the  mart, 
And  through  the  forest  guide  your  haunted  feet. 
No  curfous  nymph  may  thrust  the  boughs  apart 


[121] 

With  dewy  arm;  the  Dryads  grow  discreet, 
And  scarcely  is  there  found  a  modern  breeze 
So  swift  that  it  may  catch  the  echoes  sweet 


Of  laughter  delicate  within  the  trees. 
Yet  spirits  fill  the  wood  for  him  who  sees. 


IV 


Yea,  for  the  souls  in  pain  our  mother  waits 
With  healing  symbols.  See  her  ocean  beat 
On  barren  sands  and  foam  in  rocky  straits 

With  unavailing  flow  and  vain  retreat. 

A  restless  breast  that  hoary  pilgrim  hath; 

Dead  faces  touch  it  coldly,  and  his  feet 

Rage  round  the  iron  shores  with  fruitless  wrath, 
To  escape  his  bondage.     But  yon  moon,  as  chill 
As  some  relentless  conscience,  points  the  path 


And,  moaning,  he  obeys.     Look  higher  still. 
Within  those  circling  spheres  are  fiery  wars, 
And  yet  their  beauteous  orbits  they  fulfill. 


Even  heaven's  wild  hearts,  the  flaming  meteors, 
No  rebels  are,  but  far  ambassadors. 


A  JANUARY  TWILIGHT 

THE  air  is  starred  with  snowy  flakes, 
The  spruces  prick  the  sky, 
And  not  a  lonely  pine  tree  breaks 
The  silence  with  a  sigh. 


Between  the  wastes  of  level  white 
And  the  cloud-drift  dim  and  gray, 

In  tasselings  of  tender  light 
Beauty  consoles  the  day. 

They  lose  full  many  a  scene  like  this 

Who  flee  our  winter  rude, 
As  hearts  that  turn  from  sorrow  miss 

Its  hushed  beatitude. 


TO  A  CROW 

hither,  taunted  bird,  and  I  will  stroke 
Thy  ruffled  plumage  with  a  verse,  O  triste 
And  sombre  minstrel  at  our  Twelfth  Night  feast, 
A  music  masquerading  in  thy  croak. 
How  often,  when  the  wild  March  mornings  broke, 
Have  I  descried  thee,  like  a  demon  priest, 
Heaping  hoarse  curses  on  the  riotous  East 
From  the  bare  branches  of  some  tossing  oak! 


[123] 

Yet  ever  welcome  is  thy  wizard  flight, 

—  Most  welcome  now,  when  Earth  lies  imaging 
The  sleep  of  death  beneath  a  winding-sheet 

Of  frozen  snow  intolerably  white, 

A  pallid  waste  crossed  by  the  sudden,  fleet, 
Beautiful  shadow  of  thy  sable  wing. 


A  SHAKESPEARE  MASQUERADE 

'  I  AHE  storm  had  passed;  the  air  was  still; 

A     So,  by  the  leave  of  Gentle  Will, 
I  shut  the  sovereign  book  of  plays 
To  woo  the  queen  of  winter  days ; 
But  royalties  are  all  akin, 
As  world  without  to  world  within. 

A  carnival  of  sleeted  snows ! 
The  elms  were  keen  Mercutios, 
Dazzling  with  such  a  diamond  wit 
No  Capulet  could  suffer  it. 
In  muffled  bush  I  marked  her  fret, 
The  crook-backed  nurse  of  Juliet. 

Two  opalescent  briars  pricked 
Like  Beatrice  and  Benedict. 
Beyond  their  tinkling  repartee 
Stood  marble-wrought  Hermione, 
With  ghost  and  mantled  Prospero 
And  many  a  "  mockery  king  of  snow." 


[124] 

Across  the  sparkling  crust  had  gone 

The  fairy  feet  of  Oberon, 

And  high  upon  a  crystal  wall 

A  tuft  of  grasses  showed  to  all 

How  poor  old  Lear's  white  hair  had  tossed 

A  last  defiance  to  the  frost. 

Enskied  and  sainted  Isabel 
Had  stolen  from  her  nunnery  cell, 
And  where  the  burdened  hemlock  threw 
Dark  shadow  on  the  drift,  I  knew 
A  sable-suited  Hamlet  bowed 
Above  Ophelia  in  her  shroud. 


ILLUMINED 

A  NAKED  tree  against  the  sunset  sky, 
A  tall,  black  tree  whose  leaves  of  emerald  sheen, 
That  blissful  birds  were  wont  to  peep  between, 
Long  since  have  fallen.     Through  her  summit  high 

The  winter  winds  have  swept  with  bitter  cry 
And  left  her  desolate,  a  crownless  queen, 
Yet  beautiful  for  amber  lights  serene 
That  all  the  ebon  outlines  glorify. 

The  Light !     The  Light !     'Mid  her  abandoned,  bare, 
Stript  branches  like  a  tracery  of  jet, 
Streams  heavenly  splendor.     Fairer  to  behold 

Than  all  those  summer  graces  they  forget, 
Her  boughs  are  as  a  shadow  on  the  air, 
A  foil,  a  fretwork  in  the  flood  of  gold. 


[125] 

MIDWINTER 

MIDWINTER,  but  the  gracious  skies  are  blue, 
Save  where  the  apple-green  horizon  line 
Glistens  between  the  interlacings  fine 
Of  dark  elm  branches.     Soft  winds  wander  through 
The  tufts  of  meadow  grasses  gaunt  and  few, 
And  golden-tipped  the  cloudy  willows  shine 
Along  the  far-off  brooks.     Our  hearts  divine 
Old  Winter  sleeps  and  smiles,  as  sleepers  do, 
Dreaming  of  winsome  Spring.     May  all  sweet  dreams 
come  true ! 


A  SONG  OF  WAKING 

^  I^HE  maple  buds  are  red,  are  red, 

-J-        The  robin's  call  is  sweet ; 
The  blue  sky  floats  above  thy  head, 

The  violets  kiss  thy  feet. 
The  sun  sheds  emeralds  on  the  spray, 

And  sapphires  on  the  lake; 
A  million  wings  unfold  to-day, 

A  million  flowers  awake. 


Their  starry  cups  the  cowslips  lift 
To  catch  the  golden  light, 

And  like  a  spirit  fresh  from  shrift 
The  cherry  tree  is  white. 


[126] 

The  innocent  looks  up  with  eyes 

That  know  no  deeper  shade 
Than  falls  from  wings  of  butterflies, 

Too  fair  to  make  afraid. 

With  long,  green  raiment  blown  and  wet, 

The  willows,  hand  in  hand, 
Lean  low  to  teach  the  rivulet 

What  trees  may  understand 
Of  murmurous  tune  and  idle  dance, 

With  broken  rhymes  whose  flow 
A  poet's  ear  shall  catch,  perchance, 

A  score  of  miles  below. 

Across  the  sky  to  fairy-realm 

There  sails  a  cloud-born  ship ; 
A  wind-sprite  standeth  at  the  helm 

With  laughter  on  his  lip. 
The  melting  masts  are  tipped  with  gold ; 

The  broidered  pennons  stream; 
The  vessel  beareth  in  her  hold 

The  lading  of  a  dream. 

It  is  the  hour  to  rend  thy  chains, 

The  blossom-time  of  souls. 
Yield  all  the  rest  to  cares  and  pains ; 

To-day  delight  controls. 
Gird  on  thy  glory  and  thy  pride, 

For  growth  is  of  the  sun ; 
Expand  thy  wings,  whate'er  betide ; 

The  summer  is  begun. 


[127] 
THE  SPRING  OF  LIFE 


OPRING  of  the  Year, 
Keeping  thy  trust  so  exquisitely  well, 
Each  fluting  note  and  dainty  tint  revere 
The  sanctity  of  Nature's  miracle! 

Thy  fine  yet  frolic  mirth 
Uplifts  the  soul  on  every  wee  bird's  wing. 
Thy  beauty  hallows  all  the  laboring  earth, 

O  perfect  Spring. 

And 'Youth,  no  less, 

If  Youth  divined  the  sweetness  she  might  shed, 
She  would  not  dim  by  one  unworthiness 
The  coronal  upon  her  queenly  head. 

She  would  not  mar  the  dream 
That  makes  illimitable  longing  cling 
About  her  rose-clad  grace,  nor  once  blaspheme 

The  Gods  of  Spring. 

MAY 

THE  fragrances  of  May  are  on  the  air, 
Our  shy  New  England  air,  yet  interblent 
With  breath  of  rosy  orchards  and  with  rare 

Arbutus  scent, 
Sweet  as  the  Orient. 

The  songs  of  May  are  on  the  dulcet  air, 
Blithe  carols,  trills,  melodious  mating  calls. 


[128] 

These  hidden  brooks  have  tunes  as  debonair 

As  waterfalls 
That  silver  Alpine  walls. 

Life,  pulsing,  poignant  life  is  in  the  air. 
The  winter-wasted  heart,  that  dared  blaspheme 
By  weary  apathy  and  bleak  despair 

The  Joy  Supreme 
Re-blossoms  into  dream. 


GYPSY-HEART 

THE  April  world  is  misted  with  emerald  and  gold; 
The  meadow-larks  are  calling  sweet  and  keen ; 
Gypsy-heart  is  up  and  off  for  woodland  and  for  wold, 
Roaming,  roaming,  roaming  through  the  green. 

Gypsy-heart,  away ! 

Oh,  the  wind —  the  wind  and  the  sun! 

Take  the  blithe  adventure  of  the  fugitive  to-day ; 

Youth  will  soon  be  done. 

From  buds  that  May  is  kissing  there  trembles  forth  a 

soul; 

The  rosy  boughs  are  whispering  the  white ; 
Gypsy-heart  is  heedless  now  of  thrush  and  oriole, 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  of  delight. 

Gypsy-heart,  beware ! 
Oh9  the  song  —  the  song  in  the  blood! 
Magic  walks  the  forest;  there's  bewitchment  on  the 
air. 

Spring  is  at  the  flood. 


[129] 

The  wings  of  June  are  woven  of  fragrance  and  of  fire ; 

Heap  roses,  crimson  roses,  for  her  throne. 
Gypsy-heart  is  anguished  with  tumultuous  desire, 
Seeking,  seeking,  seeking  for  its  own. 

Gypsy-heart,  abide! 
Oh,  the  far  —  the  far  is  the  near! 
'Tis  a  foolish  fable  that  the  universe  is  wide. 
All  the  world  is  here. 


UNDER  THE  FERNS 


OING,  bird,  sing, 
Fill  the  dawn  with  glee ; 
All  the  blessings  of  the  Spring 
Light  on  thee! 

Choose,  oh,  choose, 
Choose  a  Valentine, 
In  the  sunbeams  and  the  dews 
Only  thine! 

Call,  call,  call; 
On  some  twig  she  swings ; 
Apple-blossoms  somewhere  fall 
Down  her  wings. 

n 

Strow,  wind,  strow, 
Strow  the  drifted  blooms ; 
Blithest  hearts  may  beat  below 
Brownest  plumes. 


[130] 

Dip,  birds,  dip 
Where  the  ferns  lean  over, 
And  their  crinkled  edges  drip, 
Haunt  and  hover. 

Trill  your  mirth 
High  to  heaven  above ; 
Trill  the  tune  of  all  the  earth, 
—  Love,  love,  love ! 

in 

Green,  green,  green, 
Doth  the  shadow  rest, 
Where  the  scented  curtains  screen 
Dainty  nest. 

Peep,  oh,  peep! 
Waiting  for  a  feather, 
Cozy  birdlings  fast  asleep 
Dream  together, 

Dream,  dream,  dream 
Of  a  brooding  breast, 
On  folded  wings  in  shade  and  gleam 
Lightly  pressed. 

IV 

Folded  wings, 
Folded  wings  must  fly. 
Not  a  bird  in  thicket  sings ; 
Chill  winds  sigh. 


[131] 

Blow,  wind,  blow, 
From  the  norlands  stern. 
Fill  the  ruined  nest  with  snow ; 
Blight  the  fern. 

Summer,  pass 
To  thy  sepulchre. 
Ye  whose  days  are  as  the  grass, 
Weep  for  her. 


SUMMER  DAWN 

THREE  hours  since  dreary  midnight,  and  behold! 
Sad  whippoorwill  his  solitary  lay 

Had  scarcely  ceased  when  clear  from  wood  and  wold 
Rang  out  the  choral  melodies  of  day. 

And  while  the  moon,  a  pallid  film  and  cold, 
Was  fading  back  into  a  cloud  of  gray, 

The  blithe  young  sun  illumed  with  living  gold 
The  crested  waves  and  amber-misted  spray. 


HILLS  AND  SEA 

THE  restless  sea,  the  ever-surging  sea, 
Lacks  the  majestic  calm  of  yon  strong  hills, 
With  azure  summits  bathed  in  heaven.     God  wills 
One  nature  to  the  mountains,  and  to  thee, 
Tumultuous  deep,  a  different  destiny. 


[132] 

His  sunlight  glances  in  their  leaping  rills, 
His  balm  upon  their  forest  breath  distils, 
His  high  winds  sweep  across  them  pure  and  free. 

But  O  my  ocean,  O  my  saddest,  bravest, 
Forever  flinging  thy  wild  heart  away, 
Forever  forced  from  the  land  thou  cravest 

By  secret  laws  thy  being  must  obey! 

Thine  is  it  still  to  strive  and  fail  and  long ; 
But  where  hath  earth  a  music  like  thy  song? 


OUT  OF  SIGHT  OF  LAND 


WE  are  at  sea,  at  sea,  at  sea, 
Still  floating  onward  dreamily. 
The  isles  and  capes  fall  far  behind, 
Blown  backward  by  the  salty  wind. 
The  sky  her  sapphire  chalice  turns 
Upon  the  deep,  which  gleams  and  burns 
With  sunlight ;  in  the  midst  we  ride, 
A  fleck  upon  the  sheeny  tide. 
Millions  of  sparkles  leap  and  dance 
Above  the  blinding,  blue  expanse; 
And  on  the  round  horizon-rim 
The  ghosts  of  vessels  dawn  and  dim. 
Beneath  our  bended  glances  break 
The  splendors  of  the  shimmering  wake. 
We  watch  the  iris-shedding  wheel, 
We  hear  the  swift,  melodious  keel, 


[133] 

And  wonder,  when  with  placid  eye 
Some  strange  sea-monarch  plunges  by 
Between  his  waves  in  marshaled  file 
That  doff  their  white-plumed  caps  the  while. 


n 


We  are  at  sea,  at  sea,  at  sea, 
Still  floating  onward  dreamily. 
What  is  this  marvel  that  is  wrought 
Within  our  silent  haunts  of  thought? 
We  hail  no  ships  of  roseate  shells; 
We  catch  no  mermaid's  bridal  bells ; 
No  siren's  song  with  yearning  stirs 
The  souls  of  drifting  mariners. 
The  world,  alas !  hath  waxed  too  wise 
To  trust  her  cradle  lullabies, 
And  nevermore  her  feet  may  stand 
In  moonlight  glades  of  fairyland. 
Yet  on  the  main  whose  gray  heart  beat 
Beneath  the  westward-sailing  fleet 
That  bore  Columbus,  'neath  the  sun 
That  shone  on  builded  Babylon, 
Ourselves  unto  ourselves  grow  strange, 
Made  conscious  of  our  mortal  change. 
We  are  the  dream,  and  only  we, 
'Twixt  the  enduring  sky  and  sea. 


[134] 

INTO  THE  NIGHT 

ARISE,  come  forth  into  the  night !    Arise, 
Beloved,  for  her  dusky  lips  will  teach 
A  nobler  tale  than  any  mortal  speech, 
And  the  pure  lights  of  her  eternal  eyes, 

Beyond  all  anger,  sorrow  and  surprise, 

Look  with  the  same  large  loveliness  on  each, 

Not  human-fashion,  scorning  who  beseech 

To  cherish  those  who  scorn.     The  gleaming  skies 

Are  royal  with  old  goddesses  and  queens 

Whose  faces  lit  the  earth  till,  banished  thence, 
They  watch  from  heaven  the  fair,  familiar  scenes 

That  nevermore  shall  do  them  reverence, 

Though  humbled  Cassiopaea  earthward  leans, 
And  Cynthia  sheds  her  old  beneficence. 


THE  HARPER 

THE   self-sufficing,  perfect  moon   sat  in   the  skies 
alone, 

Save  for  one  star,  a  little  page  below  her  amber  throne, 
And  yet  it  was  the  star  whose  harp  made  all  the  heavens 

glisten 

With  brother  stars  come  stealing  out  from  their  blue 
tents  to  listen. 


[135] 

"WHEN  GOD  DAWNS,  HE  DAWNS  ON  ALL" 

GOD  looked  out  through  the  casement  of  the  dawn, 
And  all  the  earth  was  gladdened  by  His  face, 
—  The  far  wild  hills,  the  smooth  seigniorial  lawn, 
The  prison-yard's  enwalled,  stone-paven  space. 


THE  SWEET  O'  THE  YEAR 

CRIMSON  bushes  line  the  hollows, 
Yellow  tree-tops  fringe  the  hills. 
The  sky  is  full  of  swallows, 

With  a  twitter  in  their  bills. 
The  sky  is  full  of  swallows, 

The  air  is  full  of  sun, 
And  sparkling  winter  follows, 
When  autumn's  done. 

Ivory  pillar,  crystal  rafter, 
Make  a  palace  of  the  wood. 

The  world  is  blithe  with  laughter, 
She  wears  an  ermine  hood. 

The  world  peeps  out  in  laughter. 
Her  hood  will  melt  anon. 

But  oh,  the  spring  comes  after, 
When  winter's  gone. 

Gleam  of  bluebirds,  flute  of  thrushes, 
Thrill  the  blossom-misted  trees. 

The  apple-orchard  blushes. 
Arbutus  balms  the  breeze. 


[136] 

The  apple-orchard  blushes, 

The  heart  is  on  the  wing, 
And  flood  of  summer  gushes 

From  founts  of  spring. 

Sea  and  summit  tempt  the  rover; 

Fairy  horns  to  forest  call. 
The  bees  are  drunk  with  clover, 

The  earth's  a  dancing  ball. 
The  bees  are  drunk  with  clover. 

The  poem  of  the  year 
Turns  a  new  leaf  over, 

And  autumn's  here. 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING 

SOFT  the  golden  sunshine  crept  through  the  autumn 
trees  and  slept 
On  her  shining  head  bowed  meekly  coming  from  the 

house  of  God, 
And   along  the  woodland   road,  wending   to   her   new 

abode, 

Where  the  April  wind  had  sowed,  laughed  the  nod 
ding  goldenrod. 

Thus  my  grandsire  led  his  bride,  lily-robed  and  gentian- 
eyed, 

Past  the  brook  that  sang  unceasing  her  new  name  in 
silver  tone, 


[137] 

Underneath  the  maple  grove  where  the  leaves  such  car 
pet  wove, 
As  their  jealous  blushes  strove  to  surpass  the  maid 


en's  own, 


To  a  cottage,  woodbine-thatched,  whose  rude  door  his 

hand  unlatched, 
While  above  the  drooping  eyelids  with  their  dreamy 

smile  below, 
Close  he  bent  his  comely  head, —  so  the  gossip  squirrels 

said, 

Peeping   through   the    oak-leaves    red,    fifty   happy 
years  ago. 

For  their  love  white  plumage  lent  to  the  days  of  their 

content, 
And  so  swift  the  singing  seasons  flew  before  their 

wedded  feet, 

That  themselves  might  scarcely  know  where  the  sun 
beams  met  the  snow, 

And  the  blossoms  ceased  to  blow  in  the  shadow  of 
the  wheat. 

Thus  their  youth  ran  into  age,  and  albeit  their  pil 
grimage 
Knew    full   many    a   thorn-set   passage   where   they 

fainted  as  they  trod, 
When  the  brooding  sunset  light  flooded  every  vale  and 

height, 

All  the  way  seemed  golden  bright  in  the  constant 
smile  of  God. 


[138] 


And  my  grandsire,  looking  back  o'er  the  long,  illu 
mined  track, 
Counting    fifty    years    like    jewels    in    his   marriage 

diadem, 

Stooped  anew  to  kiss  the  brows  of  his  worn  and  with 
ered  spouse, 

Calling  all  his  scattered  house  to  return  and  feast 
with  them. 

Straight  we  flocked  from  east  and  west  back  to  the 

forsaken  nest, 
Some  with  storm-beat,  broken  plumage ;  some  with 

grace  of  dovelike  ways ; 
Eagle  hearts  and  pinions  strong;  twilight  voices  sweet 

of  song, 

And  the  twittering  broods  that  throng  on  the  leafy 
summer  sprays. 

From  the  north  and  south  we  came,  all  the  children  of 

his  name, 
Blown  like  autumn  leaves  together  homeward  to  the 

parent  tree, 
And  he  blessed  us  one  and  each  in  his  quaint,  unlettered 

speech, 

Praying  all  our  feet  might  reach  mansions  by  the 
crystal  sea. 

Then  with  smiles  and  tender  tears,  honoring  the  gar 
nered  years, 

We  in  turn  our  costly  tokens  did  with  loving  hands 
unfold, 


[139] 

But  the  old  man  turned  him  where  little  faces  pressed 

his  chair. 

For  the  gifts  he  counted  fair  were  those  clustering 
heads  of  gold. 

Yet  with  pitying  eyes  and  dim  looked  the  wedding- 
guests  on  him, 
Stepping   softly   like    sojourners    in    a    consecrated 

place, 

For  the  weary,  white-haired  bride  lay  in  pain  till  even 
tide, 

And  before  the  dawn  she  died,  smiling  in  her  hus 
band's  face. 

Soft  once  more  the  sunshine  crept  through  the  autumn 

trees  and  slept 
On  her  faded  hands  crossed  meekly  borne  from  out 

the  house  of  God, 
While  beside  the  woodland  road  wending  to  her  last 

abode, 

Where  the  April  wind  had  sowed,  wept  the  dewy 
goldenrod. 


HURT 

ALONE  he  wandered  in  the  waning  day, 
Too  sore  of  heart  for  human  touch ;  the  dim, 
Soft  masses  of  enpurpled  cloud  that  lay 
Low  in  the  west  could  better  comfort  him. 


[140] 

AUTUMN 

THIS  rich  October  sunshine  is  so  bright, 
The  yellow  leaves,  that  at  the  wind's  least  breath 
Must  fall,  seem  melting  into  golden  light, 
As  frail  old  age  faints  softly  into  death. 


FLIGHT 

GRAY  shadows  roughen  all  the  sea, 
The  birds  are  met  on  rock  and  tree, 
But  no  debate  of  love  or  hate 
Doth  sway  this  busy  company. 

Ah,  what  impatient  pulses  beat 

In  those  poised  wings,  what  sudden  heat 

To  quit  the  isle  whose  April  smile 
The  blithe  nest-builders  found  so  sweet! 

The  silent,  dark,  unswerving  line, 
Obedient  to  the  impulse  fine, 

Begins  its  flight  at  shut  of  night 
Across  the  leagues  of  bitter  brine. 

Before  them  lie  the  gardens  fair 
With  balm  and  bloom  and  purple  air. 
They  leave  behind  the  boding  wind, 
The  frosted  fields,  the  branches  bare. 


[141] 

Frail  lovers  of  the  languid  rose, 
A  nobler  joy  yon  raven  knows, 

That  dares  abide  the  wintry  tide 
And  revel  in  the  blinding  snows. 

Thou,  too,  O  soul,  disdain  to  flee 
Where  siren  ease  would  beckon  thee. 

In  stress  and  strain  and  battle-pain, 
Win  thou  thy  peace  by  victory. 


SUNKEN  LEAVES 

WAN  sleep  the  sunken  oak-leaves  in  the  lake 
While  over  them  the  ripples  come  and  go ; 
Too  deep  their  dream  for  little  waves  to  break 
With  busy  idleness  of  to  and  fro. 

Green  glanced  the  hope  and  garnet  glowed  the  pride, 
All  ghost  and  wreckage  ere  the  year  is  done. 

Poor  perished  leaves !  but  toward  the  waterside 
There  glides  a  glory  from  the  westering  sun. 

Strangely  these  victims  of  the  frost  and  storm 
Beneath  that  crystal  shield  their  hues  reclaim, 

Pouring  such  treasured  glories  forth  as  form 
A  tessellated  floor  of  sudden  flame. 

How  much  of  loss  and  ruin  went  to  weave 
This  flush  as  transient  as  a  world's  desire ! 

But  who  would  not  be  shattered  to  achieve 
Such  brief,  divine  apocalypse  of  fire! 


[142] 


WINTER 

AHA !  he  is  here  again. 
His  stormy  trumpets  blow; 
The  swift,  dim  lines  of  the  beating  rain 
Blossom  to  starry  snow, 

Till  the  air  is  white  as  a  nun 
With  the  whirling,  thistledown  grace 
Of  myriad  flakes,  and  every  one 
A  fret  of  fairy  lace. 

Each  naked  stem  they  cloak 
Till  it  shines  like  a  birch  in  spring, 
And  each  dry  leaf  that  clings  to  the  oak 
Becomes  a  feathery  wing. 

With  morning  the  drifts  are  deep, 
And  strangely  over  them  go, 
Like  dreams  on  the  silent  heart  of  sleep, 
Shadows  of  jay  and  crow; 

But  the  hungry  chickadees  wait, 
Their  tree-hollow  sealed  with  ice, 
Till  the  sun  shall  open  that  crystal  gate 
To  a  sparkling  paradise ; 

For  never  a  branch  so  bare, 
So  gnarled  and  crooked  and  gray, 
But  it  dazzles  with  diamonds  unaware 
And  rainbows  out  at  play. 


[143] 

Too  soon  the  sun  unfurls 

Gold  banners  in  the  west ; 

The  diamond  pendants  pale  to  pearls, 

The  flying  shadows  rest; 

And  the  fair  young  moon  in  joy 
Comes  flushing  up  the  sky, 
To  find  our  world  a  Christmas  toy 
Carven  in  ivory. 


TO  THE  OLD  YEAR 

A   UF  wiedersehen!    For  we  shall  meet  before 
-*•  *•     The  throne  of  God.     The  drifting  snows  confuse 

Thy  foot-prints.     Down  the  echoing  wind  I  lose 
Thy  voice.     So  be  it.    We  shall  meet  once  more. 

When  from  the  grave  of  Time  thou  com'st  again 
To  front  my  soul  in  Judgment,  witness  bear 
To  error,  failure,  sin ;  but  oh,  my  prayer, 

My  strife  forget  thou  not!    Auf  wiedersehen! 


THE  NEW  YEAR 

T    ONG  foretold  by  those  prophets  old, 

•'-'  The  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars, 
The  New  Year  waits  at  Time's  high  gates, 
And  clashes  the  golden  bars. 


[144] 

And  the  soul  of  the  world  awakens  and  gropes 
In  a  twilight  wonder  of  fears  and  hopes, 
As  a  new  wave  breaks  on  the  beaten  shores, 
As  a  new  foot  falls  on  the  trodden  floors, 
And  a  New  Year  stands  with  uplifted  hands 
In  the  light  of  the  opened  doors. 

All  uncrowned,  with  his  hair  unbound, 
His  white  hair  loose  on  the  wind, 
The  Old  Year  goes  to  his  long  repose, 
But  he  casts  his  gifts  behind. 

With  glimmer  of  tears  and  flicker  of  smile, 

He  takes  his  place  in  the  pilgrim  file 

Of  the  dim-eyed  years  who  journey  along, 

Shrilling  us  back  a  discordant  song, 

That  mingles  and  blends  with  the  distance  and  ends 
In  a  harmony  soft  and  strong. 

Long  foretold,  in  the  morning  cold, 

With  pain  and  music  and  mirth, 

The  New  Year  gleams  on  the  broken  dreams 

Of  the  fast-revolving  earth ; 
A  secret,  a  change,  and  a  mystery, 
What  hath  not  been  and  what  is  to  be, 
Nourished  and  cherished  and  hidden  away, 
Saved  by  Time  for  this  ripening  day, 
To  work  a  deed  forever  decreed 
And  a  mission  it  must  obey. 

All  unknown,  it  is  thou  alone 
Who  canst  tell  thine  errand  aright, — 
A  whispered  thought  when  the  world  was  not, 
And  a  sign  made  in  the  night. 


[145] 

Far  from  the  touch  of  our  vain  surmise, 
In  thy  folded  hours  thy  meaning  lies, 
To  some  for  blessing,  to  some  for  curse ; 
Yet  none  would  thy  destined  dawn  disperse, 
For  it  works  in  the  plan  that  is  more  than  man, 
And  is  well  for  the  universe. 


THE  CHANGING  ROAD 

BENEATH  the  softly  falling  snow 
The  wood  whose  shy  anemones 
We  plucked  such  little  while  ago 
Becomes  a  wood  of  Christmas  trees. 

Our  paths  of  rustling  silken  grass 
Will  soon  be  ermine  bands  of  white 

Spotted  with  tiny  steps  that  pass 
On  silent  errands  in  the  night. 

The  river  will  be  locked  in  hush 
But  frosted  like  a  fairy  lawn 

With  knots  of  crystal  flowers  that  flush 
By  moonlight,  blanching  in  the  dawn, 

Flown  are  our  minstrels,  golden-wing 
And  rosy-breast  and  ruby-throat, 

But  all  the  pines  are  murmuring 
A  sweet,  orchestral  under-note. 


[146] 

So  trustfully  our  hands  we  lay 

Within  the  old,  kind  hands  of  Time, 

Who  holds  on  his  mysterious  way 

From  rime  to  bloom,  from  bloom  to  rime, 

And  lets  us  run  beside  his  knee 

O'er  rough  and  smooth,  and  touch  his  load, 
And  play  we  bear  the  burden,  we, 

And  revel  in  the  changing  road, 

Till  ivory  dawn  and  purple  noon 
And  dove-grey  eve  have  one  by  one 

Traced  on  the  skies  their  ancient  rune, 
And  all  our  little  strength  is  done. 

Then  Time  shall  lift  a  starry  torch 

In  signal  to  his  gentle  Twin 
Who,  stooping  from  a  shining  porch, 

Gathers  the  drowsy  children  in. 

I  wonder  if,  through  that  strange  sleep 
Unstirred  by  clock  or  silver  chime, 

Our  dreams  will  not  the  cadence  keep 
Of  those  unresting  feet  of  Time, 

And  follow  on  his  beauteous  path 

From  snow  to  flowers,  from  flowers  to  snow, 
And  marvel  what  high  charge  he  hath, 

Whither  the  fearless  footsteps  go. 


VI 


LOVE  PLANTED  A  ROSE 

LOVE  planted  a  rose, 
And  the  world  turned  sweet. 
Where  the  wheat-field  blows 
Love  planted  a  rose. 
Up  the  mill-wheel's  prose 

Ran  a  music-beat. 
Love  planted  a  rose, 

And  the  world  turned  sweet. 


HEART  OF  HEARTS 

WILL  you  corne  to  my  heart  of  hearts?     'Tis  a 
path  o'ergrown  with  rue, 
Where  rarely  a  footprint  parts  the  mosses  or  dims  the 

dew; 
Yet  there,  in  the  thorn-tree  cloven,  her  nest  hath  a 

song-bird  woven, 

And  deep  in  my  heart  of  hearts  the  love-light  burns 
for  you. 

Would  you  wend  from  my  heart  of  hearts?     Shall  I 

hold  my  guest  my  thrall? 
Peace  to  the  rose  that  starts  wherever  your  footsteps 

fall! 

149 


[150] 

But  leaping  in  fitful  flashes,  the  hearth-fire  pants  to 

ashes ; 
Shadow  on  bench  and  ingle,  shadow  on  floor  and  wall. 

All  dark  in  my  heart  of  hearts?     Nay,  the  skies  that 

once  were  far, 
The  skies  whence  the  lightning  darts,  the  skies  where 

the  rainbows  are, 
Look  in  through  the  broken  thatches.     Only  the  wind 

at  the  latches, 
But  glad  is  my  heart  of  hearts  with  the  glory  of  sun 

and  star. 


"  SHE  IS  THE  GRACE  OF  ALL  THAT  ARE  " 
(Ben  Jonson) 

SHE  is  the  grace  of  all  that  are, 
The  fragrancy  of  morn, 
The  wild,  blithe  ring,  afar,  afar, 
Of  Dian's  horn. 

She  is  the  hidden  carol  in 

The  fringes  of  the  wood, 
The  sudden  blue  when  clouds  wax  thin, 

The  joy  of  good. 

May  God  who  wrought  our  fleeting  race 

Forbid  her  fatal  star, 
Remembering  she  is  the  grace 

Of  all  that  are. 


[151] 

VALENTINE 

OOD  night,  True  Heart!    If  we  could  part 

'Twere  night  indeed.     But  go 
Not  yet,  not  yet,  lest  we  forget 
The  saint's  punctilio. 

If  my  earliest  sight  by  the  morrow  light 
Be  the  pearl  of  thy  tender  face, 

Saint  Valentine  will  assure  thee  mine 
For  another  twelve  moons'  space. 

How  else,  mine  All?    When  these  eyelids  fall, 

They  fold  thy  beauty  in ; 
And  when  the  light  calls  home  my  sprite, 

And  the  mists  of  dreamland  thin, 

I  awake  to  thee,  though  land  and  sea, 

Ay,  though  the  skies  debar, 
I  awake  to  the  grace  of  thy  visioned  face, 

My  changeless  morning-star. 


w 


WHEN  IT  BEFORTUNES  US 

HEN  it  befortunes  us,  who  love  so  dearly, 
To  hurt  each  other,  let  us  haste  to  wring 
This  joy  from  our  remorseful  passioning, — 
The  wound  is  witness  that  we  love  sincerely. 


[152] 

So  slight  a  weapon,  word  or  silence  merely, 
Would  scarce  effect  surprisal  of  a  sting, 
Were't  not  my  word,  thy  silence,  for  we  cling 
One  soul  together.     Life  allots  austerely 

Unto  the  rose  of  love  the  thorny  power 
To  tear  the  heart,  but  ah,  love's  anodyne ! 
The  prick  but  proves  the  presence  of  the  flower, 

Our  one  white  rose  from  gardens  all  divine. 
Then,  only  then,  could  grief  outlast  her  hour 
Were  I  ungrieved  by  least  rebuff  of  thine. 


MEASURES 

MEASURE  grist  by  the  millful, 
Dew  by  the  daffodilful, 
April  clouds  by  the  skyful, 
Tears  by  Ophelia's  eyeful; 
Measure  leaves  by  the  elmful, 
Slaves  by  the  tyrant's  realmful, 
Green-capped  gnomes  by  the  hillful, 
Rhymes  by  Romeo's  quillful; 
Measure  sweets  by  the  jarful, 
Dreams  by  the  brooding  starful, 
Robes  by  the  bridal  chestful, 
Songs  by  Bobolink's  breastful, 
Thorns  by  the  rose's  stemful, 
Gems  by  the  diademful, 
Gold  and  dust  by  the  cartful, 
Only  love  by  the  heartful. 


[153] 

SAINT  VALENTINE'S  DILEMMA 

HOW  shall  my  love  be  told? 
The  rainbow  alchemist 
That  turns  the  sunshine  gold 

To  green  and  amethyst ; 
A  princess  in  brocade, 

Woods  dipped  in  autumn  dyes, 
A  holiday  parade 

Of  tinted  butterflies ; 
The  million-colored  blooms 

Whose  dainty  buds  and  leaves 
Were  wrought  in  fairy  looms 

On  sweet  midsummer  eves ; 
The  jeweled  domes  and  spires 

That  rise  with  vesper  hymn 
Beyond  the  western  fires  — 

Are  all  too  dim. 

How  shall  I  tell  my  love? 

The  snowflake  petals  shed 
From  happy  garths  above 

Wherein  they  blossomed 
On  trees  of  cloudy  grace; 

The  frost  that  decks  the  pine 
With  weft  of  glittering  lace 

In  exquisite  design ; 
The  pearl  in  ocean  deeps, 

And  lilies  half  unblown, 
A  marble  shaft  that  keeps 

The  moonlight  watch  alone, 


[154] 

Chalcedony,  the  gleam 
Of  angels  in  their  flight, 

These,  for  my  soul's  pure  dream, 
Are  not  too  white. 

O,  love  misunderstood! 

My  song  no  symbol  knows. 
The  blush  of  maidenhood, 

The  swarthy  tropic  rose, 
The  lightning  flash  that  rends 

The  veil  of  heaven  in  twain ; 
Pomegranate  branch  that  bends 

With  fruit  of  ruddy  stain ; 
Coals  in  the  evening  grate, 

Whereon  who  strictly  looks 
Sees  elves  illuminate 

His  sealed  spirit-books; 
The  fiery  hearts  that  groan 

In  seared  volcanoes  old ; 
The  sun  on  flaming  throne  — 

Are  all  too  cold. 


INSECURITY 

1  DEEMED  this  ravening  grief  long  since  was  slain, 
But  yestermorn,  as  I  went  forth  to  reap, 
Soft  in  his  covert  stirred  mine  ancient  pain 
And  rose  upon  me  with  a  tiger-leap. 


[155] 

SO  IT  PIERCE  THE  CRUST 

Surprised  with  so  mortal  and  strange  a  pang." 


0  it  pierce  the  crust 
That  obscureth  life's  core  of  fire, 

Welcome  the  thrust 
Of  the  terrible  Heart's  Desire  ! 

Though  crucible  break, 
Shrink  not  from  the  alchemist's  hour, 

When  he  wills  to  make 
From  the  shards  of  thine  agony  Power. 

WERE  LOVE  BUT  TRUE 

WERE   love   but   true,   no    frost   would   mar  the 
flowers, 

No  fatal  frost  that  down  the  garden  bowers 
Steals  hideously  from  bloom  to  blissful  bloom, 
The  shimmering  weft  of  summer's  golden  loom, 
And  mocks  with  blight  their  radiant,  dreamful  hours. 

Nor  would  the  waste  and  wreck  of  orient  towers, 
Slow-sunken  from  the  reach  of  sun  and  showers, 
Tax  the  unfeatured  sands  for  burial  room, 
Were  love  but  true. 

For  love  is  lord  of  earth's  phantasmal  powers, 
And  all  that  seems  with  his  own  fact  he  dowers. 

The  shapes  of  art,  the  growths  of  nature's  womb, 

From  love,  the  one  reality,  take  doom, 
And  life  might  laugh  at  death  that  overlowers, 
Were  love  but  true. 


[156] 

DISILLUSION 

IT  is  when  the  eyes  are  aching 
With  a  passion  of  unshed  tears, 
It  is  when  the  heart  is  breaking 
For  the  vision  that  disappears, 
It  is  when  the  harsh  gate  clashes 
On  the  sweetest  hope  we  know, 
Truth  from  the  darkness  flashes, 
And  we  welcome  her  even  so. 


THE  VICTORY 

*  I  AHE  blue  sky  at  its  deepest  was  pricked  by  one 

-*•     keen  star 

That  flashed  a  signal  to  the  moon's  uplifted  scimitar, 
And,  like  a  quarrel  in  a  dream,  we  spake  with  angry 

breath, 

Till  in  that  place  of  shadows  our  Love  was  done  to 
death. 


God  hung  the  dawn  with  carmine  and  pillared  it  with 

gold 

To  welcome  in  our  new  Love,  the  angel  of  the  old. 
With  lips  still  pale  from  requiems  and  litanies  she  came, 
But  home-sweet  lights  were  in  her  eyes, —  the  same  and 

not  the  same. 


[157] 

All  that  was  mortal  of  her,  the  passion,  the  caprice, 
We  had  wrapt  in  cloud-white  linen  and  laid  away  at 

peace ; 

But  the  living  Spirit  stood  within  the  temple  of  the  sun, 
Her  agony  accomplished,  her  consecration  won. 


THE  WORTH  OF  LIFE 

TF  thou  tasteth  a  crust  of  bread, 
A      Thou  tasteth  the  stars  and  the  skies." 
So  Paracelsus  said, 
Paracelsus  the  wise. 

For  the  least  of  beauty  that  comes 
To  the  convict  watching  a  cloud, 

The  least  of  love  in  those  homes 
Too  poor  for  cradle  or  shroud, 

Is  Beauty  transcending  dust, 
Is  Love  that  rebukes  the  beast. 

Let  us  say  a  grace  for  the  crust 
That  falls  from  the  infinite  feast. 


THE  FELLOWSHIP 

WHEN  brambles  vex  me  sore  and  anguish  me, 
Then  I  remember  those  pale  martyr  feet 
That  trod  on  burning  shares  and  drank  the  heat, 
As  it  had  been  God's  dew,  with  ecstasy. 


[158] 

And  when  some  evanescent  sunset  giow 
Renews  the  beauty-sting,  I  set  my  pride 

On  that  great  fellowship  of  those  who  know 
The  artist's  yearning,  yet  are  self-denied. 


Feast  me  no  feasts  that  for  the  few  are  spread, 
With  holy  cup  of  brotherhood  ungraced, 

For  though  I  sicken  at  my  daily  bread, 
Bitter  and  black,  I  crave  the  human  taste. 


THE  ETIQUETTE  OF  THE  PALACE 

"  As  I  might,  I  put  my  trouble  from  me,  for  in  a 
King's  dwelling  was  I." — EDDA. 

DANCING  feet  for  palace  floors 
Of  enameled  glow ; 
Through  the  carven  ivory  doors 
Debonairly  go; 

Feast  it  whether  the  red  wine  flow 
Sweet  or  bitter,  for  we  know 
Guests  must  trust  the  hand  that  pours. 
Manners  ho! 


Knights  of  rueful  countenance 

Gloom  the  amber  hall 
Where  in  praise  of  Dame  Romance 

Dulcet  harpings  fall. 


[159] 

Turn  your  wounds  against  the  wall ; 
Cover,  when  the  revels  call, 
Bleeding  heart  with  laughing  glance, 
Gentles  all. 

Should  your  spear  in  tourney  break, 

Be  the  first  to  weave 
Garlands  for  the  victor's  sake; 

And,  at  shut  of  eve, 

If  the  usher  touch  your  sleeve, 

Gracefully  the  hint  receive. 
Kiss  your  hand  to  Life  and  take 

Courtly  leave. 


POT-POURRI 

BLUSH-COLORED  roses 
Droop  with  the  day ; 
Melody  closes, 

Lips  are  clay ; 
But  though  beauties  depart, 

Their  aroma  shall  be 
Sealed  in  my  heart, 
Pot-Pourri. 


Humming-bird  Joy, 
Thistle-down  Love, 

Wisdom  the  Toy, 
Sorrow  the  Dove 


[160] 

Fleet  unto  Death ; 

So  treasure  for  me 
Sweet  of  their  breath, 
Pot-Pourri. 

Life,  my  garden 

Ambrosial, 

When  thy  skies  harden 
And  snowflakes  fall, 
Winter  shall  win  a 

Fragrancy, 
Rose-leaves  in  a 

Pot-Pourri. 


A  PRIVATE 
"  It  is  no  feather  of  fancy." 

HE  once  had  worn  Love's  myrtle-wreath, 
And  worshipped  Art's  disdain ; 
But  he  fought  his  manhood's  fight  beneath 
The  ruddy  flag  of  Pain. 

His  comrades  scaled  the  splendid  heights: 

But  for  his  only  deed 
He  proved  the  bullet  how  it  bites, 

The  wounds  and  how  they  bleed. 

No  mortal  plaudits  pay  this  price; 

No  herald  here  has  trod; 
The  incense  of  his  sacrifice 

Ascendeth  unto  God. 


[161] 

THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 

WHO  may  despise  the  fallen?    Not  the  soul 
Unproved,  outside  the  warrior  fellowship, 
But  some  pale  Michael  whom  the  devil's  grip 
Had  all  but  ravished  of  his  aureole. 

Are  such  the  scorners?     Ah,  not  they,  who  know 
The  stealthy  lures  of  evil,  how  the  weight 
Of  opportunity  confederate 

With  passion  presses  to  the  overthrow. 

For  sweet  Saint  Charity  is  not  as  one 
Whose  lily  paces  print  the  garden  way 
Of  youth  and  innocence.     Her  hair  is  gray; 

There  is  no  sinner  she  is  fit  to  shun. 


THE  PROVING  OF  THE  KNIGHT 

O    HERO-HEART,  not  thine  to  yield 
Nor  falter  on  the  mortal  field, 
However  fierce  the  foemen  press. 
In  midmost  battle's  shock  and  stress 
The  hero-heart  is  best  revealed. 

Unveil  the  splendor  of  thy  shield; 

The  ancestral  sword  didst  long  to  wield, 

Swing  high,  and  heaven  the  charge  will  bless, 
O  Hero-Heart! 


[162] 

Remember  how,  ere  larums  pealed 
And  squadrons  crashed  and  chargers  reeled, 
In  dim  cathedral's  hushed  recess 
White-robed,  erect,  companionless, 
The  watch  was  kept,  the  vow  was  sealed, 
O  Hero-Heart! 


THE  PASSER-BY 

A  WOMAN  trod  the  city  street 
And  blessed  it  by  her  passing  feet. 
So  calm  a  step  and  so  serene 
A  brow  had  graced  some  honored  queen 
Within  whose  crown  had  long  been  worn, 
Beneath  the  gems  a  bleeding  thorn, 
But  who  upon  her  queendom  stood, 
Above  her  tortured  womanhood, 
And  ruled  her  loyal  people  well, 
Because  she  ruled  herself.     So  fell 
This  woman's  presence  on  the  street, 
Made  purer  by  her  passing  feet. 
Though  humbly  clad,  her  lifted  face 
Was  lighted  by  so  fine  a  grace 
Men  turned  to  note  the  way  she  took, 
Or  met,  with  conscious,  startled  look, 
The  soul  that  leaned  from  out  her  eyes, 
Intense  and  pitiful  and  wise ; — 
A  wondrous,  wistful,  solemn  gaze, 
To  be  remembered  through  the  days. 


[163] 

Her  name  it  is  not  mine  to  know, 

Nor  what  strange  youth  had  left  her  so. 

I  know  she  passed  me,  while  I  stood 

Surprised  by  sense  of  brotherhood. 

The  long  street  wavered,  and  I  saw 

The  beauty  of  the  starry  law 

By  which  each  shifting  figure  moved 

My  fellow  and  my  friend  beloved. 

And  trembling  with  the  sweet,  new  sense, 

The  rapture  of  benevolence, 

I  looked  for  her  whose  glance  could  find 

The  secret  spring  of  humankind, 

But  she  had  vanished  down  the  street, 

To  bless  it  by  her  passing  feet. 


FACES 


I   HAVE  not  seen  a  sterner  look  than  his, 
With  harsh  variety  from  fierce  to  grim. 
What  iron  years  have  forged  that  rugged  phiz 
From  sometime  baby  features  soft  and  dim? 


Men  saw  the  guilt  that  veiled  his  heart 
Like  mist  within  a  mountain  nook, 

But  never  sunbeam  clove  apart 
That  white  and  deathly  look. 


[164] 

BABY 

WHAT  is  most  like  her,  our  baby  sweet, 
Strayed  from  the  skies  on  yester-even, 
So  newly  come  that  her  dimpled  feet 
Still  are  missed  at  the  gate  of  Heaven, 
Where  the  angels  kissed  them  and  bade  them  go. 
What  is  most  like  her?     Don't  you  know? 

The  bud  of  a  rose, —  of  a  moss-rose,  fair, 
Flushed  and  dainty,  a  folded  flower, 
The  blossom  a  woman  is  fain  to  wear 
Over  the  heart.     May  sun  and  shower 
Brim  her  cup  to  the  overflow 
With  dewy  perfume,  if  this  be  so ! 

Or  call  her  rather  a  nestling  dove 

That  fluttered  down  through  the  moonlight  amber, 

To  be  brooded  under  the  wings  of  love 

Here  in  a  hushed  and  happy  chamber. 

May  never  a  stain  of  our  earth  below 

Dim  her  plumage,  if  this  be  so! 

I  liken  her  unto  a  pearl, —  a  pearl 
From  seas  of  trouble.     But  whist,  my  numbers! 
What  strains  are  these  for  our  baby-girl, 
Shut  like  a  star  in  a  mist  of  slumbers? 
They  vex  her  dreams  with  their  tuneless  flow. 
She  heard  the  angels  a  night  ago. 


[165] 

THE  SECRET 

THE  blossoms  whispered  the  whole  night  through. 
Their  cups  were  as  full  as  they  could  hold 
Of  a  secret  sweet  as  the  honeyed  dew. 

"  What  will  you  give  her?  and  you?  and  you?  " 

Nodding  each  head  as  the  gift  was  told, 

The  blossoms  whispered  the  whole  night  through. 

Sighed  violets  twain :   "  For  her  eyes  of  blue 
We  die  to-night  in  the  moonbeams  cold, 
Smiling  to  Heaven  through  tears  of  dew." 

"  My  pinkest  bud  is  my  birthgift  true, 

Shy  kisses  and  lisping  words  to  fold," 

The  rosebud  whispered  the  whole  night  through. 

Said  a  stately  lily  as  ever  grew: 

"  I  yield  the  leveling  a  heart  of  gold ; 

White  thoughts  enshrine  it  and  holy  dew !  " 

O  Baby  Bud,  ere  your  petals  knew 
Earth's  lightest  blemish,  our  fragrant-souled, 
The  blossoms  whispered  the  whole  night  through 
Of  a  secret  sweet  —  as  sweet  as  you. 


[166] 

SLEEPING  BESSIE 

LIGHTLY  tread  who  come  to  peep 
At  the  little  maiden's  sleep. 
Let  your  steps  the  carpet  cross, 
Soft  as  sunshine  over  moss, 
Lest  her  dream  should  suffer  loss. 

Hushed  the  baby  lies,  so  late 
Entered  through  the  crystal  gate 
That  a  calm  and  holy  grace, 
Borrowed  from  some  blessed  place, 
Shineth  still  within  her  face. 

Lashes  laid  in  slumber  meek, 
Fringe  with  gold  a  tender  cheek 
Tinted  like  the  dewy  sprays 
Of  the  blossomed  peach,  whose  praise 
Floods  the  robin's  roundelays. 

And  as  if  a  white-rose  tree 
Dropped  its  daintiest  petal,  see 
How  the  dimpled  hand  gleams  fair 
Through  the  ripples  of  her  hair, 
Clasped  by  angels  unaware. 

Who  shall  sing  her  cradle-song? 
Silver  streams  would  do  her  wrong; 
Whispering  leaves  are  over  rude, 
And  the  twitter  in  the  wood 
From  the  linnet's  nestling  brood. 


[167] 

Flowers  we  shed,  in  lieu  of  speech, 
With  a  blessing  shut  in  each, 
Culled  at  dawn  from  emerald  dells, 
Where  the  wild  bee  longest  dwells, 
Cradled  deep  in  honey  bells. 

Strew  the  sweets  above  her  rest, 
Only  hearts-ease  on  the  breast, 
By  our  potent  sylvan  art 
Charming  thus  the  budding  heart 
From  all  thorny  sting  and  smart. 

On  the  blue  eyes,  curtained  fast, 
Blue  forget-me-nots  we  cast. 
Mayflowers  pink  we  scatter  free 
O'er  the  feet.     On  hill  and  lea 
Fragrant  may  their  treading  be ! 

Nay ;  but  here  there  bendeth  one 
Doth  out-bless  our  benison. 
Deepest  love  is  purest  prayer, 
Mounting  high  the  starry  stair 
To  the  Love  beyond  compare. 

See!  she  stirs.     The  dimple  dips 
All  about  the  drowsy  lips. 
Bonny  dreams  blue  eyes  beguile 
Not  so  well  but  mother's  smile 
Shall  to  waking  reconcile. 


[168] 

LITTLE  KATHARINE 

BABY  Land  is  Beauty  Land. 
(Kiss  brow  and  chin!) 
Watch  the  pictures  that  she  paints 

For  happy  kith  and  kin, 
—  Shifting  sunshine  on  the  hair, 

Rose-tint  in  the  skin, 
And  sweetest  hesitating  curves 

Where  the  smiles  begin. 
Such  a  fireside  Raphael  is 
Little  Katharine. 

Love  Land  and  Baby  Land! 

(Who  may  kisses  win?) 
Everywhere  her  blue  eyes  glance, 

Waits  a  paladin. 
All  her  world  is  tender-toned, 

Hurt  and  comfort  twin. 
Treasures  seek  the  tiny  hands 

That  neither  toil  nor  spin. 
Softly  home  encompasses 
Little  Katharine. 

Baby  Land  is  Holy  Land, 

(Kiss  a  blessing  in!) 
—  Just  a  baby's  step  beyond 

God  our  Origin. 
So  lightly  draws  the  cloud  between, 

Lily  cloud  and  thin, 


[169] 

Undarkened  yet  by  rain  of  grief 

And  stormy  gusts  of  sin, 
She  hardly  knows  she's  out  of  heaven, 
Little  Katharine. 


WATCHING  THE  WEDDING 

WHO  can  tell  me  where  I'm  going, 
Tell  a  little  maid  like  me, 
With  her  fingers  worn  for  sewing, 

But  her  soul  as  full  of  glee 

As  of  scented,  blushing  blossoms  yonder  twisted  apple 
tree  ? 

For  perchance  my  life  is  twisted 
Out  of  shape  in  so  much  thread; 

I  was  never  firmly-wristed, 

With  a  steady  back  and  head, 
And  you  taste  so  many  stitches  in  a  single  loaf  of  bread. 

And  by  eve  my  arms  grow  tired, 
Underneath  their  level  stare, 
Shaping  folds  to  be  admired 

On  these  ladies,  who  are  fair. 

Would  we  look  so  white,  I  wonder,  if  we  had  such  silks 
to  wear? 

For  to  serve  another's  beauty 

All  the  days  when  you  are  young, 
And  to  do  a  mirror's  duty, 


[170] 

With  the  ever-praising  tongue; 

—  Would  you  rather  sing,  red  robin,  or  like  sometimes 
to  be  sung? 

I  forget  —  to  stain  with  sorrow 

This  clear-colored  holiday. 
Yesterday  and  the  to-morrow 

Have  no  robin  on  their  spray. 

Can  you  tell  me  where  I'm  going,  winding  down  the 
woodland  way? 

No,  Sir  Squirrel,  you've  no  notion, 

With  your  arching  tail  a-swell. 
You  may  make  a  fine  commotion 

In  the  branches  where  you  dwell. 

You  may  chatter  till  the  nuts  fall.     I  can  keep  my 
secret  well. 

Holding  back  these  saplings  pliant, 

I  can  catch  an  odor  sweet; 
I  can  see  my  rock,  the  giant, 

Crouching  in  the  noonday  heat, 

With  the  last  pale  Mayflowers  dying  clustered  round 
his  shaggy  feet. 

How  my  forest- thoughts  are  jumbled 
With  the  cambric  shred  and  scrap, 
And  my  work-box  overtumbled, 

Needles  scattered  as  may  hap, 

Like  these  fallen,  brown  pine-needles,  five  sharp  heads 
in  one  tall  cap. 


[171] 

Oh,  but  now  the  leaves  are  parting, 

And  I  reach  the  bridge  at  last, 
With  the  white  waves  under-darting, 

That  so  still  and  these  so  fast; 

If  I  were  the  bridge,  I  would  not  like  to  be  forever 
passed. 

And  above  there  is  the  highway, 

And  beyond  there  is  the  church. 
They  will  not  be  looking  my  way, 

Even  if  this  friendly  birch 

Did  not  shield  me  as  completely  as  a  bird  upon  her 
perch. 

Little  dreameth  she  who  lingers 

Here,  and  thou  —  thou  dreamest  less, 
Bonny  bridegroom,  what  small  fingers 
Wrought  thy  lady's  wedding-dress, 
Who  the  mysteries  might  whisper  of  that  bridal  love 
liness. 

I  may  laugh  —  'tis  close  and  shady, — 

Workmanship  will  have  its  pride, 
And  I  fashioned  yon  fair  lady, 

Sewing  stitches  in  my  side. 

Youth  is  good  and  love  is  better,  but  the  satin  makes 
the  bride. 

Now  they  come.     I  hear  the  voices,  • 

And  the  merry  church-bells  ring, 
While  the  very  wood  rejoices, 

For  the  birds  fly  up  to  sing. 

Hush !  to  weep  upon  their  coming  were  a  wicked  wel 
coming. 


[172] 

I  will  shape  my  lips  to  kindness, 
Smiling  on  them,  ere  they  go. 
It  were  sudden  cure  for  blindness 

To  behold  them  pacing  so, 

She  with  modest,  drooping  lashes,  he  with  eager  looks 
aglow. 

Bonny  bridegroom,  art  thou  idle 
In  my  craft,  when  all  is  said? 
Dost  thou  weave  no  raiment  bridal 

For  the  lady  thou  shalt  wed? 

Dost  thou  shape  her  true-love  vesture,  sewing  with  a 
golden  thread? 

Prithee,  brother  artist,  speed  me 

With  a  little  of  thy  skill, 
For  I  fear  thou  dost  exceed  me, 

And  my  labor  shows  but  ill. 

Yet  —  oh,  shame  if  thy  seam  parteth,  while  my  dull 
thread  holdeth  still ! 

So  I  praise  a  shining  treasure 

If  no  nearer  than  a  star; 
So  I  steal  a  bitter  pleasure, 

Watching  weddings  from  afar ; 

But  before  the  little  seamstress  long  and  dim  the  path 
ways  are. 

Nay!  my  robin  is  turned  raven, 

And  his  wings  are  feathered  wrong. 
Certes,  he  is  but  a  craven, 

Who  would  sing  me  such  a  song. 

I  will  run  again  and  seek  him.     I  will  search  the  lane 
along. 


[173] 

I  may  find  my  fate's  redressing; 

I  may  meet  a  crooked  witch, 
Or  a  statue,  white  with  blessing, 

Wandered  from  its  Roman  niche, 
Or  a  folded  bud  to  blossom  even  while  I  sit  and  stitch. 


A  MOUNTAIN  SOUL 

A    MOUNTAIN  soul,  she  shines  in  crystal  air 
•^*"      Above  the  smokes  and  clamors  of  the  town. 
Her  pure,  majestic  brows  serenely  wear 
The  stars  for  crown. 

The  buzzing  wings  of  folly,  slander,  spite, 
Fall  frozen  in  her  alien  atmosphere. 

Her  heart's  at  home  with  sunrise  and  with  night 
As  neighbors  dear 

Who  tell  her  ancient  tales  of  time  and  law, 
The  miracle  of  love  breathed  into  dust, 

Until  her  sweet  gray  eyes  are  brimmed  with  awe 
And  steadfast  trust. 

Remote  she  dwells  'mid  her  celestial  kin, 

Rainbow  and  Moon  and  Cloud,  yet  none  the  less 

Full  many  a  weak  earth-creature  shelters  in 
Her  friendliness. 

She  comrades  with  the  child,  the  bird,  the  fern, 
Poet  and  sage  and  rustic  chimney-nook, 

But  Pomp  must  be  a  pilgrim  ere  he  earn 
Her  mountain  look, 


[174] 

—  Her  mountain  look,  the  candor  of  the  snow, 
The  strength  of  folded  granite,  and  the  calm 

Of  choiring  pines  whose  swayed  green  branches  strow 
A  healing  balm. 

Oft  as  the  psalmist  lifted  up  his  eyes 

Unto  the  hills  about  Jerusalem, 
Did  not  God's  glory  with  a  new  surprise 

Transfigure  them? 

That  royal  harper,  passionate  for  rest, 

Held  one  still  summit  dearest  to  his  dream, 

But  only  to  the  golden  chords  confessed 
Its  hour  supreme. 

For  lovely  is  a  mountain  rosy-lit 

With  dawn,  or  steeped  in  sunshine,  azure-hot, 
But  loveliest  when  shadows  traverse  it, 

And  stain  it  not. 

And  thee,  marmoreal,  hyaline,  apart, 

The  plumed  procession  of  the  storms,  the  wool 

Of  mantling  snows  but  render,  Alpine  Heart, 
Most  beautiful. 


REST 

THE  banners  of  the  sunset  are  too  bright ; 
Fairer  the  after-hour 

When  all  the  sky  is  flushed  by  fainter  light 
To  a  mysterious  flower. 


[175] 

These  robin  troubadours  are  shrill  as  pain ; 

Sweeter  the  vespers  where 
Some  thistle-bird  lets  slip  a  drowsy  strain 

Soft  as  a  baby's  prayer. 

Let  Aspiration  fold  her  wings  to-night, 

Those  shining  wings  forspent, 
And  sit  with  Peace  before  the  ember-light 

In  sisterly  content. 
Let  Love  be  gentle  as  old  friendliness, 

Nor  Sorrow  overmuch 
Perturb  the  heart,  that  knows  like  a  caress 

Her  long-accustomed  touch. 


SPIRITS  OF  FLAME 

SHINING,  stinging  spirits  of  flame  to  whom  in  the 
moment's  meeting 

Leap  our  souls,  surprised  by  God  in  the  daily  com 
monplace, 
Spirits   that    cleave   our   mortal   through   with   swift, 

celestial  greeting, 

Angel  spirits  that  from  the  throng  flash  out  on  us, 
face  to  face! 

Eyes  that  blunt  the  swords  of  the  world,  where  we  fight 

under  mist  and  glamour ; 
Tones  that  fall  with  a  silver  sound  as  of  far,  supernal 

chime 


[176] 

Melting  into  its  harmony  the  cry,  the  curse  and  the 

clamor ; 
Drops  of  eternity  upon  the  craving  thirst  of  time ! 

Only  a  word,  and  ye  go  your  ways,  for  the  errand 

burns  within  you, 

Votaries  of  the  Voice  that  calls  and  speeding  torches  of 
The  Light  that  when  the  stars  are  drift  of  ashes  shall 

continue ; 
Only  for  us  to  anoint  your  feet  with  the  spikenard  of 

our  love. 

Rosewhite,  holy  spirits  of  flame  that  the  heart's  deep 

chambers  cherish, 
Ye  who  fade  from  the  sight  to  glow  like  sunrise  upon 

the  dream, 
Ye  whose  splendor  shrivels  the  earth  ere  the  day  it  is 

doomed  to  perish, 
Our  souls  leap  up  in  your  glance  of  fire  to  bless  you, 

gleam  to  gleam. 


VII 


AZRAEL 

OF  all  the  angels  whose  melodious  breath 
The  Sapphire  Throne  with  praise  encompasseth, 
Amid  that  rainbow-plumed,  ecstatic  choir 
Most  beautiful  art  thou,  benignant  Death: 

For  we  who  dwell  beneath  this  cloudy  tent 
Some  changing  years,  are  all  too  early  spent 

By  covert  griefs  that  fret  the  heart  like  fire, 
Our  staffs  soon  broken  and  our  sandals  rent. 

Though  sweet  the  grace  of  moon-enchanted  night, 
And  day  in  blue  serenities  of  light, 

Matched  with  the  joys  of  sense,  our  souls  rise  higher, 
And  tears  may  shut  the  sparkling  stars  from  sight. 

But  soon,  ah,  soon  the  touch  of  thy  chill  palm 
Falls  on  the  fevered  heart  like  healing  balm, 
And  fitful  bliss,  keen  anguish,  wild  desire, 
Lie  hushed  together  in  most  holy  calm. 

What  though  thy  cup,  with  dark  devices  chased, 
Strike  pallor  down  the  lip,  to  mortal  taste 
So  passing  bitter  with  the  Stygian  mire 
And  nightshade  plucked  on  sad  Cimmerian  waste? 

179 


[180] 

What  though  thou  comest  all  in  shadow  stoled? 
Are  there  not  instants  when  that  sable  fold, 

Blown  by  the  flame  of  the  funereal  pyre, 
Emits  a  gleam  of  bright,  celestial  gold? 

Gloom-mantled  herald  of  the  light  to  be, 
Thy  dusky  wings  that  spread  from  sea  to  sea 

Hide  us  from  evil,  and  thy  sword,  though  dire 
The  sweeping  blade,  sets  sorrow's  captives  free. 

Of  all  the  angels  whose  melodious  breath 

The  Sapphire  Throne  with  praise  encompasseth, 

Amid  that  rainbow-plumed,  ecstatic  choir 
Most  beautiful  art  thou,  benignant  Death. 


THE  GATES  OF  DEATH 

MARMOREAL,  impregnable, 
Immutable,  we  bear 
The  searching  shafts  of  human  thought, 

The  onset  of  despair. 
The  indistinguishable  cell 
Of  spirit  and  of  brain 
Through  all  the  centuries  has  fought 
Its  puny  fight  in  vain. 

The  pageant  of  humanity 

Dissolves  as  on  it  falls 
The  shadow  of  our  bulwarks  dense, 

Our  unrevealing  walls. 


[181] 

Its  starcraft  is  but  vanity. 

Its  aspen  faith  but  blows 
In  winds  whose  whither  and  whose  whence 

No  mind  of  mortal  knows. 

Yet  is  there  one  strong  battle-lord 

Who  still  the  day  retrieves. 
Ashes  and  dust  are  infidel ; 

His  very  life  believes. 
Forever  is  his  only  word. 

Breath  is  incredulous, 
But  Love,  undaunted,  terrible, 

Demands  his  own  of  us. 


IMMORTALITY 

>~pHE  Angel  of  the  Sun 
A       Had  spread  a  wing  of  flame 

Athwart  the  orient  sky; 
Then  grew  my  spirit  one 
With  Beauty  and  became 

A  Joy  that  could  not  die. 

At  some  far  torch  of  gold 
The  shining  soul  was  lit 

And  claims  celestial  kin. 
Shadows  its  house  enfold, 
But  are  not  one  with  it. 
The  splendor  bides  within. 


[182] 

Sorrow  and  vain  desire 

Are  drifts  of  darkness  gone 

Upon  the  ebb  of  night. 
Spark  of  the  primal  fire, 
Bliss  wakens  with  the  dawn, 
Light  answering  to  light. 


"THE  REST  IS  SILENCE" 


THE  shadow  of  Death's  wing  had  fallen  grey 
Upon  her  face,  the  mother-face,  our  star 

Of  home  since  life  first  read  its  calendar 

Within  her  smiles ;  we  felt  her  slip  away, 
Our  vain  hold  clinging  to  an  empty  clay, 

Down  that  hushed  valley  where  the  white  mists  are, 

On  to  its  utmost  verge,  so  far,  so  far 

That  her  return  was  but  as  spirits  may 
Briefly  revisit  earth.     For  oh,  she  shone 

Transfigured,  yet  so  winsome,  that  our  awe 

Was  blended  with  her  own  beatitude. 
The  burden  of  her  fourscore  years  was  gone; 

Escaped  from  Time,  she  mocked  his  mighty  law ; 

Her  children  looked  upon  her  maidenhood. 


Eager  and  shy,  as  when  among  her  peers 
A  girl  will  pour  her  confidence,  she  told 
In  voice  where  laughter  ran  a  thread  of  gold 
A  history  all  novel  to  our  ears. 


[183] 

Her  blissful  eyes  oblivious  of  tears, 

With  lingering  touch  she  one  by  one  unrolled 

Her  bridal  memories  from  fold  on  fold 

Of  fragrant  silence.     Dead  these  fifty  years 

Was  he  with  whom,  young  hand  in  hand,  she  went 
To  their  first  home,  which  simple  neighbor-folk 
Had  filled  with  garden-bloom  and  forest  scent ; 

Yet  still  of  him,  and  that  June  path  they  fared, 

Those  welcoming  flowers,  her  failing  accents  spoke ; 
—  Of  how  Love  led  her  to  a  place  prepared. 


HI 


When  the  bruised  heart,  bewildered  first  and  numb, 
Quickened  to  pain,  how  passing  strange  it  seemed 
To  miss  her  comfort!     She,  who  still  esteemed 
Old  lore  above  the  schools,  would  she  not  come 

With  potency  of  hoarded  balsamum, 

To  heal  the  hurt?     Thus  craving  her,  I  dreamed. 
Before  me,  sundering  east  from  west,  there  gleamed 
A  marble  wall,  illimitable,  dumb, 

A  blank  of  white !  when  lo,  her  own  sweet  face, 
With  no  more  halo  than  the  crispy  lace 
I  knew  so  well,  from  sudden  casement  smiled, 

—  Her  blithe,  audacious  self,  infringing  so 
With  stolen  peep  Death's  new  punctilio, 
Breaking  his  code  to  reassure  her  child. 


[184] 

THE  PASSING  SOUL 

THE  passing  soul  yearns  forth  from  wistful  eyes, 
Whose  solemn  gaze  is  more  than  mortal-wise, 
On  death;  and  we  who  in  the  earthways  fair 
Held  with  her  pace  for  pace  —  we  may  not  share 
That  incommunicable,  far  surprise. 

Yet  must  our  grief-bewildered  hearts  surmise 
How,  with  those  slow-drawn,  laboring,  dying  sighs 
Time  ebbs  away,  and  yields  to  heavenly  care 
The  passing  soul. 

Our  sorrow  wanes  from  her,  our  living  guise 
Is  dreamlike.     Hushed  in  God's  own  hand  she  lies. 
Deep  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  there 
His  rod  and  staff  they  comfort  her.    We  bear 
The  bitterness  of  death,  but  softly  flies 
The  passing  soul. 


UNDER  THE  SNOWS 

UNDER  the  drifted  snows,  with  weeping  and  holy 
rite, 

For  a  little  maid's  repose  let  the  lonely  bed  be  dight. 
Cold  is  the  cradle  cover  our  pitiful  hands  fold  over 
The  heart  that  had  won  repose  or  ever  it  knew  delight. 

High  are  the  heavens  and  steep  to  us  who  would  enter  in 
By  the  fasts  that  our  faint  hearts  keep  and  the  thorn- 
set  crowns  we  win. 


[185] 

Sweetly    the    child    awaketh,    brightly    the    day-dawn 

breaketh 
On  the  eyes  that  fell  asleep  or  ever  they  looked  on  sin. 

GLISTEN  THE  MARBLES  TALL 

GLISTEN  the  marbles  tall, 
Blossoms  the  sweet  white  rose. 
When  will  God's  angel  call 
The  dead  from  their  long  repose? 
Morning  climbs  in  the  sky, 
Thrushes  are  building  nigh; 
Silent  the  sleepers  lie 
Under  the  bloom  and  snows. 

Earthward  the  marbles  fall, 
Withers  the  sweet  white  rose. 
When  will  God's  angel  call 
The  dead  from  their  long  repose? 
Suns  dip  low  in  the  west, 
Thrushes  forsake  their  nest ; 
Silent  the  sleepers  rest 
Under  the  bloom  and  snows. 


CREMATION 

LET  the  fires  be  swift,  not  slow. 
In  the  terror  of  the  glow 
Let  the  awful  change  be  wrought 
Till  the  flesh  is  light  as  thought. 


[186] 

Will  the  spirit  not  pause  and  wait 
For  her  wonted  faring-mate 
If  it  follows  as  pale  motes  may 
Up  the  slanting  sunbeam  way; 

If  it  drifts  as  ashes  might 
On  the  fragrances  of  night, 
By  that  one  white  breath  of  heat 
Shriven  to  pure  and  sweet? 


THE  FAR  JOURNEY 

A  RUDDY  moon  through  winter  skies 
Was  slowly  climbing  up, 
That  night  she  turned  her  lips  from  ours 
To  drain  the  stirrup  cup. 

She  whom  the  tender  household  care 

Encompassed  day  by  day, 
With  only  God  for  company 

Went  the  uncharted  way. 

Beyond  all  hail  of  human  voice, 

All  hold  of  mortal  hand, 
Across  the  Perilous  Stream  she  passed 

To  the  Adventurous  Land. 

For  when  our  strength  that  lifted  her 

Along  life's  quiet  length 
Turned  suddenly  to  weakness,  then 

Her  weakness  turned  to  strength. 


[187] 

And  still  we  muse  on  it,  how  she, 

So  timid  and  so  shy, 
Our  little  Stay-at-Home,  should  find 

Temerity  to  die. 


SAINT  MARTHA 

IS  that  sublime  translation  hers, 
Lifting  beyond  our  look 
The  small,  gray  figure  sitting 
In  the  chimney-nook? 

Golden  harps  and  dulcimers, 

What  should  she  do  with  these? 

I  see  her  with  her  knitting 
Dropt  upon  her  knees; 

About  her  feet  her  pussy  purrs; 

—  But  no !  with  eyes  grown  dim 
Come  the  friends  and  neighbors 

To  chant  her  passing-hymn : 

"  Meet  Thou  all  lonely  travellers 
And  lead  them,  Christ  our  Lord, 

From  the  familiar  labors 
Unto  the  strange  reward." 

Our  grief  has  taxed  the  gardeners. 

She  lies  in  such  array 
Of  roses  and  of  lilies 

As  for  a  bridal  day. 


[188] 

Do  these  late  honors  Death  confers 

Abash  her  humbleness? 
Her  heart  —  ah  me !  —  too  still  is ; 

Her  calm  brows  acquiesce. 

O  when  those  mystic  barriers 
Our  Maries  pass,  we  dream 

That  in  some  fair  Elysian 

Their  thirst  has  found  the  Stream; 

But  the  Marthas  are  our  cottagers 
Who  make  our  fireside  bliss. 

The  Beatific  Vision  - 

She  never  talked  of  this. 

On  that  white  fact  the  bier  avers 
Our  restless  question  beats, 

In  world-old  wistful  fashion, 
Unbroken  by  defeats: 

Is  common  life  that  ministers 
The  earthly  bread  and  wine, 

This,  too,  the  Holy  Passion, 
The  fugitive  Divine? 

A  sudden  mist  our  seeing  blurs, 

Such  sacramental  grace 
Hath  poured  its  revelation 

Into  that  patient  face; 


[189] 

And  neighbor-hand  toward  neighbor  stirs, 

Her  sainthood  to  confess 
By  love's  own  consecration, 

Memorial  kindliness. 


IF  WE  COULD  TELL 

IF  we  could  tell  this  dog  of  ours,  this  dog  who  loved 
you  so, 
That  you  have  journeyed  from  us  by  the  road  which 

keeps  no  tread, 

No  bending  of  the  asphodels,  no  print  upon  the  snow, 
Perchance  your  voice  might  reach  us  from  the  dead. 

If  knowledge  cast  in  human  speech  could  answer  his 

surprise, 
His  trouble  at  your  silent  door  by  bark  and  bound 

unstirred, 

The  question  yearning  up  to  us  from  brown,  beseech 
ing  eyes, 
We,  too,  might  comprehend  celestial  word. 

But  untranslatable  to  him  remains  our  little  lore, 
And  incommunicable  unto  us  of  earth-bound  brain 

The  crystal  tides  of  wisdom  your  compassion  longs  to 

pour 
Upon  our  pleading  and  bewildered  pain. 


[190] 


LADDIE 

LOWLY  the  soul  that  waits 
At  the  white,  celestial  gates, 
A  threshold  soul  to  greet 
Beloved  feet. 

Down  the  streets  that  are  beams  of  sun 
Cherubim  children  run ; 
They  welcome  it  from  the  wall; 
Their  voices  call. 

But  the  Warder  saith :    "  Nay,  this 
Is  the  City  of  Holy  Bliss. 
What  claim  canst  thou  make  good 
To  angelhood?" 

"  Joy,"  answereth  it  from  eyes 
That  are  amber  ecstasies, 
Listening,  alert,  elate, 
Before  the  gate. 

Oh,  how  the  frolic  feet 
On  lonely  memory  beat! 
What  rapture  in  a  run 
9Twixt  snow  and  sun! 

"  Nay,  brother  of  the  sod, 
What  part  hast  thou  in  God? 
What  spirit  art  thou  of?  ' 
It  answers :    "  Love," 


[191] 

Lifting  its  head,  no  less 
Cajoling  a  caress, 
Our  winsome  collie  wraith, 
Than  in  glad  faith 


The  door  will  open  wide, 
Or  kind  voice  bid :    "  Abide, 
A  threshold  soul  to  greet 
The  longed-for  feet." 


Ah,  Keeper  of  the  Portal, 
If  Love  be  not  immortal, 
If  Joy  be  not  divine, 
What  prayer  is  mine? 


"  SHORT  DAY  AND  LONG  REMEMBRANCE  " 


OUR  Wellesley  knew  thee  but  a  few  swift  years, 
A  maiden  spirit,  fresh  as  morning  skies, 
Pale  beauty  of  the  face  and  frank  young  eyes 
With  privacies  of  tenderness  and  tears. 
Half  »hy,  half  proud  amid  thy  clustering  peers 
Thou  borest  thee  in  queenly  lily  wise, 
Yet  swaying  toward  them  in  a  sweet  surprise 
Of  love  and  faith  —  prophetic  atmospheres. 


[192] 

For  summer  shone,  and  goldenly  thine  heart 

Bloomed  into  bliss,  but  now  —  oh,  strange,  new  ache 
That  makes  itself  familiar  —  now  thou  art 

A  broken  lily,  all  untimely  dimmed, 
A  broken  lily,  for  whose  vanished  sake 
Our  speech  is  faint,  our  eyes  are  overbrimmed. 


There  is  a  life  outwearing  even  grief. 
Our  shining  lily,  of  the  sunbeams  fain, 
Smit  by  a  sudden  vehemence  of  rain 
Is  dashed  to  earth  with  ruined  cup  and  leaf; 

But  Death,  her  troubler,  holds  his  mortal  fief 
Of  Love  the  overlord,  whose  meads  retain 
A  perfume  sweeter  for  the  bruise  and  stain, 
Abiding  fragrance  of  a  blossom  brief. 

Transplanted,  be  it  so,  to  gardens  bright, 

Where  drooping  lilies,  sprent  with  honey-dew, 
By  angel  touches  wax  more  dazzling  white 

Than  eye  conceives  beneath  this  baffling  blue, 
At  least  remains  to  us  of  shadowed  sight 
Thy  folding  effluence  of  fair  and  true. 


m 


God  pity  all  whose  hearts  are  anguish-torn 
For  loss  of  her,  but  softest  mercies  flow 
On  these,  her  little  ones,  who  cannot  know 
What  cause  their  baby  voices  have  to  mourn. 


[193] 

In  vain  their  fitful  cries  pursue  her  borne 
From  rooms  beloved,  yet  content  to  go, 
Sealed  in  that  ivory  trance  from  joy  and  woe, 
Her  bridal  raiment  now  serenely  worn. 

Too  young  for  memory,  too  young  to  miss 
Her  cherishments,  and  yet  it  may  not  be 
As  they  had  never  felt  the  mother-kiss, 

Nor  reached  their  wandering  hands  to  catch  her  smile ; 
But,  haply,  dreamland  keeps  some  charmed  isle 
Where  love  shall  brood  them  safe  from  storm  and  sea. 


HEART'S  DESIRE 

OH,  what  delights  had  we  to  hold  her  here, 
Most  liberal  hands  would  not  be  shamed  to  place 
Beside  the  gifts  of  Death?    Her  glad  New  Year 

Hath  ample  grace 
All  blessing  to  embrace. 

Is  learning  good?    Truth  dwells  beyond  the  stars, 

Imparadised  in  beauty.     Love  is  fair? 

If  fair  on  earth,  where  stormy  sorrow  mars, 

How  blooms  it  there, 
Within  Heaven's  halcyon  air! 

The  voyage  unventured?     While  these  shallows  whelm 
Our  shore-bound  barques,  where  charts  but  ill  agree 
And  aspen  wills  work  folly  with  the  helm, 

The  ocean  free 
Tides  on  her  argosy. 


[194] 

'Twas  life  she  craved.     What  frees  that  harassed  fire 
From  cumbrance  of  the  clay,  save  Death's  defeat 
In  victory?     She  hath  her  heart's  desire, 

And  life  is  sweet, 
Thrilled  to  diviner  heat. 


"WHOM  THE  GODS  LOVE,  DIE  YOUNG" 

T  OVE  that  seeth  best  through  tears, 

••— '  Love  by  holy  sorrow  shriven, 
Knows  that  length  of  living  years 
Could  not  give  what  Death  has  given. 

What  is  fair,  the  seasons  fret ; 
What  is  strong,  like  glass  is  shivered; 
But  immortal  youth  is  set 
On  her  brows  from  care  delivered. 

Blithe  by  fragrant  ways  she  trod 
Up  the  hill  her  loss  leaves  arid ; 
Where  the  summit  touches  God, 
Slipped  her  sandals  off  and  tarried. 

Life  full-blossomed  into  bliss, 
Every  hurt  with  love  to  heal  it, 
—  Time,  too  poor  for  bettering  this, 
Bade  his  brother-angel  seal  it. 


[195] 


CLARA 

A  SOUL  of  sunbeams  and  wind, 
So  pure  from  the  gates  of  birth, 
That  how  could  we  hope  to  bind 
That  winged,  ethereal  mind 
To  a  perishing  form  of  earth? 

She  quivered  within  its  hold, 
Yet  we  loved  her,  ah,  so  well, 

That  we  thought  our  love  might  fold 

Her  spirit  against  the  cold 

Of  this  clime  wherein  we  dwell ; 

But  still  through  our  tenderest  word, 
Through  the  ocean's  murmurous  tone, 

Through  the  song  of  our  sweetest  bird, 

She  listened  and  ever  heard 
A  music  beyond  our  own. 

The  shadow  troubled  her  sore 
That  holdeth  our  mortal  eyes ; 

We  weep,  for  forevermore 

The  vision  of  that  dim  shore 
In  beauty  before  her  lies ; 

For  the  voice  grew  clear  in  her  ears, 
While  she  gladdened  our  daily  sight; 

The  shadow  slipt  from  the  years ; 

She  vanished  amid  our  tears 
And  fled  out  into  the  light. 


[196] 

A  soul  of  sunbeams  and  wind, 

A  spirit  of  radiant  mirth, 
A  heart  that  thrilled  to  its  kind, 
A  life  with  our  lives  entwined, 

An  ecstasy  fled  from  earth. 

We  meet  our  loss  as  we  may ; 

We  turn  to  our  toils  again ; 
But  a  glory  has  passed  from  the  day. 
And  all  that  we  think  or  say 

Bears  a  hidden  sense  of  pain. 

Yet  we  look  on  time's  swift  stream 

No  more  with  a  faithless  eye, 
Nor  of  life  and  death  can  deem 
That  the  sleep  forgets  the  dream, 

Who  have  seen  our  dear  one  die. 

From  the  cloudland  whither  she  passed, 

Where  her  passing  left  a  rift, 
A  fugitive  gleam  is  cast 
On  our  path,  and  we  hold  it  fast, 
As  we  treasure  her  latest  gift. 

WATCH  AND  WARD 

*ATCH    and    ward    of    the    oak-boughs,    storm- 

writhen,  muscular, 
Flushing  her  grave  with  compassionate  strewments 

of  May, 
Screening  it   close   with   the   summer's   green   curtains 

crepuscular, 
Sifting  the  storms  of  December  to  feathery  spray. 


w 


[197] 

Watch  and  ward  of  the  memories,  tender,  imperious, 
Preciously  folding  from  din  and  defilement  apart, 

Fragrantly  veiling  in  tremulous  twilights  mysterious 
An  asphodel  nook  'mid  the  tempests  and  drought  of 
the  heart. 


ONLY  A  YEAR 

ONLY  a  year,  but  how  art  thou  exalted 
In  that  remoteness  of  unanswering  death! 

Not  words  could  utter  what  thy  silence  saith, 

For  oft  in  fellowship  thy  words  we  faulted, 
Pointing  how  here  and  there  the  logic  halted ; 

But  now  that  God  hath  hushed  the  laboring  breath, 

Thy  silence  all  thy  words  interpreteth, 

Serene,  majestic  silence  o'er  us  vaulted 
As  the  blue  arch  of  sky.     Only  a  year, 

And  thou,  who  wast  familiar,  art  become 

A  name  of  awe.     What  ranked  as  commonplace, 
Mere  daily  running  of  the  daily  race, 

Is  waxen  to  heroic.     Life  is  dumb 

And  waits  on  Death  to  make  her  meanings  clear. 


THE  TESTIMONY 

OUR  artist-spirit,  whose  desirous  hand 
Duty  had  bound  to  alien  labors  sore, 
Was  slipping  from  us  toward  the  mystic  land, 
—  Our  martyr,  who  had  ever  hungered  more. 


[198] 

In  a  dumb  pain,  for  beauty  than  for  bread ; 

And  we,  who  owed  to  him  the  finer  grace 
Of  daily  life,  stood  calmed  and  comforted 

Before  the  revelation  of  his  face. 

Surely  earth's  bright-hued  vision, —  melting  fawn 

Of  sunset,  the  autumnal  flush  and  gold, 
Translucent  summer  green,  rose-misted  dawn, 

Sea-blues  and  sky-blues,  colors  manifold 
So  long  beloved,  on  memory  glimmering  still, 

Into  celestial  glory  softly  went; 
For  what  but  perfect  beauty  so  could  fill 

His  fading  eyes  with  infinite  content? 


SUNSET  SONG 

AT  shut  of  day  we  loved  to  stray, 
Too  long  ago,  too  long  ago, 
Beside  the  lake  whose  limpid  breast 
Flashed  back  the  jewel-hearted  west; 
And  clear  your  silver  voice  would  thrill 
The  haunted  twilight,  hailing  still 
New  miracles  of  tint  and  glow. 

Now  when  I  muse  horizon  hues 

At  eventide,  at  eventide, 
There  steals  through  hush  of  weary  brain 
A  wonder  in  a  wistful  pain ; 
To  dark  eyes  brimmed  with  poet  light, 
Remembered  eyes,  how  looks  to-night 

The  sunset  from  the  heavenly  side? 


[199] 


YESTERDAY'S  GRIEF 

THE  rain  that  fell  a  yesterday  is  ruby  on  the  roses, 
Silver  on  the  poplar-leaf  and  gold  on  willow-stem ; 
The  grief  that  chanced  a  yesterday  is  silence  that  en 
closes 

Holy  loves  where  time  and  change  shall  never  trouble 
them. 

The  rain  that  fell  a  yesterday  makes  all  the  hillside 

glisten, 

Coral  on  the  laurel  and  beryl  on  the  grass ; 
The  grief  that  chanced  a  yesterday  has  taught  the  soul 

to  listen 
For  whispers  of  eternity  in  all  the  winds  that  pass. 

O  faint-of-heart,  storm-beaten,  this  rain  will  gleam  to 
morrow 

Flame  within  the  columbine  and  jewels  on  the  thorn, 

Heaven  in  the  forget-me-not;  though  sorrow  now  be 
sorrow, 

Yet  sorrow  shall  be  beauty  in  the  magic  of  the  morn. 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  PHILLIPS  BROOKS 


w 


HITE  lies  the  winter  on  the  weary  land, 

Winter  of  many  a  loss  and  many  a  grief; 
Yet  must  this  burial  day  be  counted  chief 
Of  sorrows  and  most  sore  to  understand; 


[200] 

For  God  hath  laid  the  lightning  of  His  hand 
On  His  own  signal  tower,  for  all  too  brief 
A  date  outsoaring  mists  of  unbelief 
To  drink  the  living  blue,  a  beacon  grand. 

But  whilst  the  desolate  throng  without  the  portal 
Of  solemn  Trinity  in  silence  waits, 
As  listening  for  the  beat  of  passing  wing, 

To  view  that  clay  which  harbored  an  immortal, 
Down  the  bleak  air  a  tender  breath  of  spring 
Steals  like  a  waft  from  Heaven's  glad-opening  gates. 


Within  the  beauteous  walls  again  too  strait 

For    the   wistful    flocks    who    mourn   their   shepherd 

gone, — 

Since  here  all  creeds  one  shining  garment  don, 
One  seamless  robe, —  our  heavy  spirits  wait 

On  the  old  Hebraic  anthem  passionate 

And  fall  of  hallowed  words  that  bear  upon 
Their  cadences  strange  consolation  won 
From  centuries  of  faith  reverberate. 

But  oh,  the  empty  pulpit  eloquent 
Of  death,  the  sable  pulpit  over  all! 
Yet  even  here  is  soul  with  flesh  at  strife ; 

For  wise  and  tender  was  the  hand  that  lent 
A  glowing  wreath  to  that  funereal  pall, — 
Against  the  gloom  the  exultant  flush  of  life. 


[201] 

m 

"  For  all  the  saints  who  from  their  labors  rest " — 
White  gleam  the  lilies  on  the  lifted  bier, 
As  reverently  the  youthful  bearers  rear 
Their  sad,  beloved  burden,  pacing  west, 

Whilst  all  that  host,  as  from  a  single  breast, 
One  voice  of  praise  outringing  sweet  and  clear, 
Peals  the  triumphal  chant  he  loved  to  hear: 
"  Thy  name,  O  Jesu,  be  forever  blest." 

Ah,  turn  and  watch  the  pageantry  of  woe 

Out  through  the  darkened  door.     The  glory-hymn 
Wavers  a  space,  but  swells  again,  for  lo ! 

The  dismal  pomp  of  death,  the  mourners  slow, 
The  shrouded  casket  on  the  vision  dim, 
That  gleam  of  Eastei*1  lilies  dazzles  so. 

IV 

The  train  wends  outward,  where  new  thousands  wait 
Beneath  an  ampler  temple-arch  of  sky, 
To  speed  with  murmurous  prayer  and  paean  high 
The  royal  progress  of  that  sombre  state; 

On  through  the  streets  to  sorrow  consecrate; 

On  where  thy  sons,  hushed  Harvard,  gather  nigh, 
To  glean  a  blessing  from  the  passing  by ; 
And  so  to  Auburn's  unrestoring  gate. 

Is  this  thy  victory,  Death?  Not  thine,  not  thine, 
Howe'er  to  grief  we  grant  her  natural  throes. 
He  prophesied  of  life ;  we  asked  a  sign, 

So  little  mortals  know  for  what  they  pray, 
And  by  his  open  grave  amid  the  snows 
A  chastened  city  keeps  her  Easter  day. 


1' 

LOYAL  TO  THE  TRUTH 

In  memory  of  Carla  Wenckebach 

HER  brave,  laborious,  joy-illumined  days 
Made  up  a  rosary  that  saints  might  tell, 
The  child-heart  in  her,  loving  life,  gave  praise 
Unto  the  Lord  of  Life ;  and  all  is  well : 

For  should  she  speak  a  broken  speech  above, 
A  little  foreigner,  unused  to  wings, 

The  angels  will  but  stoop  with  swifter  love 
To  answer  all  her  eager  questionings. 

O  loyal  to  the  Truth,  we  of  the  quest 

Salute  thee,  scholar-soul ;  our  reverence  lay 

Before  thy  steadfast  patience,  quenchless  zest, 
And  bid  thee  Godspeed  on  thy  lonely  way. 


A  SUNSET  PARABLE 

In  memory  of  Alice  Gordon  Gulick 

BEHOLD  the  drooping  clouds,  yon  pallid  strips 
Above  the  purple  hills,  at  evening  hush 
Are  flooded  with  a  sudden  roseate  gush 
Of  splendor  from  the  sinking  sun,  that  dips 
Even  now  below  our  mortal  ken  and  slips 
To  his  appointed  rest, —  a  wondrous  rush 
Of  some  bright  ecstasy,  some  refluent  flush 
Of  triumph,  some  divine  apocalypse. 


[203] 

So  as  the  shadows  of  our  sorrow  bend 

Above  the  setting  of  that  life  whose  course 
Illumined  darkness  to  its  utmost  goal, 

Through  our  grey  grief  may  such  fine  flame  ascend, 
Such  glowing  benediction  from  the  force 
Of  that  celestial  fire,  her  martyr-soul. 


THE  WHITE  PINNACE 

In  memory  of  Mary  Sheldon  Barnes 
"And  nowe  being  here  mored  in  Port  Desire" 

HO,  the  White  Pinnace !  the  foam-white  Pinnace ! 
Blithe  and  free  as  the  sea-gull's  wing! 
A-leap  to  discover  the  dim  seas  over 
Lovelier  lands  than  the  poets  sing. 

Ho,  the  White  Pinnace!  the  joy-bright  Pinnace! 

The  blue  wave  creams  at  her  eager  blow. 
'Tis  well  with  the  sail  that  hears  her  hail 

And  sees  her  pass  like  a  flight  of  snow. 

Ho,  the  White  Pinnace!  the  dove-white  Pinnace! 

Tender  for  rock  and  fragile  for  gale! 
Her  Indies  rise  where  to  mortal  eyes 

Is  only  the  mid-sea  moonshine  pale. 

Ah,  the  White  Pinnace !  the  moonlight  Pinnace ! 

Trembling  from  view  in  that  strange  white  fire ! 
Yet  mariners  know,  where  God's  tides  flow, 

And  only  there,  lies  Port  Desire. 


THE  SACRIFICE 

(Dr.  William  Jones:    Indian  Ethnologist  slain  in  the 
Philippines.) 

OLOSS  !    O  splendor !    Thou,  the  "  White  Squaw's 
Son," 

Bred  in  the  blanket,  boyhood  wild  as  wind, 
Giving,  our  learning's  highest  honors  won, 
Thy  gallant  life  for  victories  of  mind! 

Thy  tribal  kin,  to  whom  thine  heart  was  true 

As  sun  to  earth,  are  proud  their  brave  should  die 

A  glorious  war-death,  but  among  them  who 
Can  comprehend  thy  holy  battle-cry? 

The  votary  of  Science,  it  was  thine 

By  subtle  sympathies  of  blood  to  scan 
Mysterious  movings  of  the  dim  Divine 

Ascending  slowly  through  the  brute  to  man. 

None  knew  so  well  the  perils  of  thy  quest, 
As  in  those  fatal  isles,  from  year  to  year, 

Thou  wert  of  savages  the  gentle  guest, 
Plying  thy  task  too  busily  for  fear. 

O  rare  young  scholar,  such  as  thwarted  Time 
May  hardly  mould  again,  what  records  sum 

Thy  daily  courage  carelessly  sublime, 
Thy  magnanimity  of  martyrdom ! 


[205] 


OUR  LADY  OF  PITY 


(Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward) 

SMILING  came  she  up  to  Zion  as  by  path  well  known 
to  her, 

Known  in  longing  dreams  and  visions,  traced  by  sor 
row's  questing  heart ; 
Smiling  as  familiar  fragrance  on  the  wind  was  blown 

to  her 

From  the  gardens  of  her  childhood,  clover-field  and 
haying-cart ; 

Smiling  as  beneath  the  golden  chant  of  stars  that  sang 

for  her, 
Lost,  beloved  voices  called  her  by  old,  teasing,  tender 

names ; 
But  she  turned  her  from  the  city,  though  the  joy-bells 

rang  for  her, 
Though  the  jacinth,  sard  and  jasper  beckoned  her  like 

rosy  flames. 

All  the  way  she  travelled  knew  her,  blossoming  its 
gratitude 

As  she  sought  the  stellar  outlands,  far  frontier  of  Par 
adise, 

Where  the  meekest  of  earth's  martyrs  find  a  dim  beati 
tude, 

Beasts  that  for  our  human  welfare  paid  their  suffering 
as  price. 


[206] 

How  they  'flock  to  her  caresses,  how  her  tones  are  sweet 

to  them, 
How    their    innocency,    smitten,    bruised,    tormented, 

thrown  at  last 
To  the  bullring  and  the  clinic,  hears  dear  pity  beat  for 

them 
In  the  heart  that  holds  them  holy  for  their  anguish 

overpast ! 

Every  wounded  wilding  spirit  lifteth  gentle  gaze  to  her, 
Saints  too  simple  for  forgiveness,  only  seeking  leave 

to  love; 
Shot-torn   birds   with   broken    plumage   carol   blissful 

praise  to  her, 
And  God's  grace  descends  upon  her  in  the  likeness  of  a 

dove. 


[207] 

THRENODY 
(For  Sophie  Jewett) 

I 

TT^EEPING  the  lonely  watch  for  thee,  for  thee 
•"-     Whose  year's  novitiate  of  Paradise 
To  all  our  longing  is  but  mystery, 

I  saw  a  silver  dawn.     The  sacrifice 
Glowed  from  a  cloud-veiled  altar,  while  there  fleeted 

A  troop  of  white,  adoring  lustres  by, 
So  fair,  so  fain,  that  mortal  grief  retreated 

As  an  intruder  on  that  orient  sky; 

And  joy  came  thrilling  through  the  morning's  breath, 
Perchance  a  greeting  from  thy  bliss  of  death. 


ii 

If  it  be  slumber  as  we  saw  thee  sleep, 

Flushed  with  the  loveliness  of  life,  but  blest 
From  pain  and  sorrow,  sinking  still  more  deep 

Into  some  soft  profound  of  utter  rest ; 
A  slumber  mystical  as  this  entrancing 

Forevermore  in  crystal,  hid  repose 
The  face  from  which  a  thousand  lights  went  glancing, 

Swift  hands  so  quiet  'neath  their  faded  rose, 
By  all  the  nights  we  have  found  slumber  sweet, 
Shall  we  not  trust  that  dove-winged  Paraclete? 


[208] 


in 

Thou  art  not  of  the  shadows,  ah,  not  thou, 

Our  'Dryad  soul,  the  soul  of  April  woods 
Where  flames  of  color,  caught  from  bough  to  bough. 

And  winds  of  fragrance  blend  beatitudes. 
Not  in  the  withered  groves  whose  phantoms  follow 

Like  drifted  leaves  the  feet  of  Proserpine, 
Not  in  the  whispering  midnights  dim  and  hollow, 

Shall  love  re-capture  that  lost  grace  of  thine ; 
Beauty  and  light  are  with  thee  where  thou  art ; 
We  grope  thy  pathway  by  the  haunted  heart. 

IV 

If  death  be  life,  again  the  vibrant  stress 

Of  joy  and  hope,  wonder  and  love  and  dream, 
An  ecstasy  more  poignant,  yet  no  less 

A  beat  of  baffled  wings,  a  fading  gleam ; 
The  urge  of  the  Eternal  through  a  higher 

Rapture  of  being,  thou  who  lovedst  so 
This  earth-adventure,  thou  whose  last  desire 

Yearned  toward  thine  Italy,  dost  thou  not  go 
With  shining  steps  to  find  that  fairer  star, 
Blithe  of  the  journey  as  God's  pilgrims  are? 


On  golden  streets  I  cannot  hear  thy  tread, 
Nor  deem  how  tenderest  touch,  albeit  divine, 

May  wipe  away  the  tears  which  still  were  shed, 
Our  Pitiful,  for  every  woe  but  thine. 


[209] 

Nay,  is  it  sweeter,  Dear,  that  hidden  manna, 
Than  was  our  daily  bread  to  trhee,  to  thee 

Whose  voice  must  falter  in  the  glad  hosanna, 
While  the  Four  Angels  hurt  the  earth  and  sea? 

Draw  near  St.  Francis  till  the  doom  is  done 

Of  that  fourth  trumpet  darkening  Brother  Sun. 

VI 

Thy  crown  of  life,  resplendent  with  the  sheen 

Of  clustered  stars  or  rainbow  though  it  be, 
Wouldst  thou  not  change  for  woven  one  of  green 

Plucked  from  the  branches  of  that  holy  tree 
Whose  leaves  are  for  the  healing  of  the  nations? 

Dost  thou  not  watch  from  heaven's  untroubled  height 
With  wistful  eyes  thy  restless  earth's  mutations, 

Its  colored  day,  its  blur  and  blot  of  night, 
Till  God  hath  smiled  thee  forth  with  Raphael 
To  minister  once  more  where  mortals  dwell? 


vn 


If  death  hath  done  its  worst, —  annulled  the  soul ; 

If  thou  art  vanished  like  a  bubble,  blown 
To  praise  the  light  one  instant ;  if  the  goal 

Of  all  our  striving  is  oblivion ; 
Alas,  our  thrush,  can  happiness  be  wrested 

From  love  so  smitten  desolate, —  can  they, 
The  summer  boughs  wherein  thy  music  nested, 

Be  glad  of  song  when  song  is  flown  away? 
Can  stormy  wind  and  hail,  that  slay  the  bird, 
Fulfil  in  us  His  great,  exultant  word? 


[210] 


VIII 

Perchance  not  God  Himself  can  slay  the  soul 

That  is  Himself  in  myriad  avatar ; 
Disguised  in  dust,  we  wear  the  aureole 

Of  His  divinity ;  in  Him  we  are. 
When  by  His  thunder-stroke  the  veil  was  riven, 

This  glamour  of  the  senses  we  misname, 
Didst  thou,  O  spirit  from  His  splendor  given, 

Ray  of  His  glory,  meet  Him  in  the  flame? 
Even  while  we  keep  this  dream  of  s^ky  and  sod, 
Are  we  not  with  thee  in  the  heart  of  God? 

IX 

The  book  of  death,  though  sealed  with  seven  seals, 

Is  in  the  hand  of  Him  upon  the  throne, 
And  as  a  father  with  his  children  deals, 

So  the  All-Father  pitieth  His  own. 
Yea,  peradventure  as  a  father  covers 

Some  rare  surprisal  till  the  gift-dawn  be, 
The  silent  cloud  that  o'er  our  pathway  hovers 

Shieldeth  strange  joyj  familiar  now  to  thee, 
To  thee,  our  fleet  forerunner,  who  hast  made 
Nearness  of  distance,  radiance  of  shade. 


VIII 


THE  WANDER- YEAR 
To  C.  H. 

I   BRING  my  gift  as  children  bring  a  shell, 
A  weed,  a  pebble,  from  their  hour  of  play,- 
Poor  hoardings,  save  as  these  to  memory  tell 
The  golden  chronicle  of  holiday 

SWITZERLAND 


The  Welcome 

From  dawn  to  dusk  across  rich  plains,  broad  streams, 
Into  an  eerie  land  of  towering  dome 

And  peak,  as  on  the  misty  map  of  dreams, 

Until  your  face  smiled  out  and  made  it  home. 


ii 


Vevey 

Our  Vevey,  shield  of  patriot  refugees, 

Holy,  and  yet  so  gay, —  her  dainty  sandals 

Teasing  Lake  Leman,  while  her  poplar  trees 
Were  glorified  to  sacramental  candles. 

213 


m 
The  Alpine  Glow 

Beyond  those  shining  poplars  and  the  hush 
Of  azure  waves,  when  sunset  flamed  the  west, 

How  solemnly  the  heights  would  wait  their  flush, 
Like  shriven  spirits  standing  to  be  blest ! 

IV 

The  Defile  of  St.  Maurice 

Dearest  of  all  we  loved  that  orient  portal 
At  the  lake's  end,  her  triple-mountain  door. 

The  heavenly  gate,  transfiguring  our  mortal 
To  light  of  light,  could  hardly  glisten  more. 


Evening  on  the  Balcony 

With  fall  of  dusk,  how  strange  our  summits  grew, 
Dim,  ghostly  shapes,  caprices  of  the  mist, 

Until  the  stars  stole  softly  from  the  blue 
To  keep  their  immemorial  Alpine  tryst! 

VI 

Evening  by  the  Hearth      % 

What  coaxing  and  what  architectural  feats 
Before  the  wood,  our  merry  plunder,  won 

Far  up  the  forest,  would  exhale  its  heats, 
Spending  for  us  slow  centuries  of  sun! 


[215] 

VII 

From  Rochers  de  Naye 

Far  up  the  forest,  past  the  pilgrim  host 
Of  climbing  pines,  tree  toiling  after  tree, 

Above  the  clouds  we  stood  as  on  the  coast 
Of  some  primeval,  frore,  stupendous  sea. 

VIII 

Above  the  Clouds 

Above  the  clouds  we  saw  a  Switzerland 

Illimitable,  crystalline,  sublime, 
Crest  upon  crest,  the  molding  of  God's  hand, 

Awful  as  in  the  very  birth  of  time. 

IX 

The  Vintage 

But  now  the  wine  was  fragrant  in  the  pale, 
Deep-clustered  grapes,  the  riches  of  the  Vaud. 

We  marvelled  that  the  harvesters  could  scale 

Their   steepy   vineyards   hung   'twixt  lake   and 
snow. 


Alpine  Bells 

Their  busy  voices,  crisping  French,  were  crossed 
By  tinkle,  tinkle  of  the  homing  herds. 

The  mountain  slopes  waxed  russet.  Like  to  frost 
Glittered  the  wings  of  Lake  Geneva's  birds. 


[216] 

XI 

Muettes 

Ah,  free  muettes !    Was  it  the  dazzling  play, 
The  myriad  sparkle  of  your  wild  white  wings, 

That  woke  the  longing  for  the  far-away, 
Alluring  us  to  wider  wanderings? 

XII 

Last  Days 

The  fainter  gold  of  dawn,  the  ruddier  moon, 
The  creamy,  soft,  reluctant  lights  that  fell 

Across  new  snow  each  briefer  afternoon, 
All  warned  us  on,  yet  all  forbade  farewell. 

ITALY 


On  Entering 

Grace  before  meat !    But  what  is  meat  to  this, 
The  manna  of  the  soul,  the  radiant  face 

Of  Italy  that  shakes  the  heart  with  bliss? 
Seeing,  we  bow  our  heads  and  say  a  grace. 

ii 
Haunted 

Haunted,  oh  haunted!     Is't  divine  Apollo 
To  whom  the  olives  listen,  or  the  sweet 

And  wayward  Pan  that  fauns  and  dryads  follow 
With  shimmering,  dancing,  evanescent  feet? 


in 

Milan 

The  sibylline  gray  olives !  pagan  still 

For  all  this  flight  of  angels  clustered  high 

On  consecrate  white  turrets.     What  day  will 

They  spread  their  shining  wings  and  seek  the  sky? 

IV 

Florence 

But  this  abides.    Rememberest  how  we  saw 
The  tower  of  Giotto  soaring  to  the  moon, 

The  dim  Duomo  brooding  mystic  awe, 
Our  Lady's  lilies  in  perpetual  June? 

v 

Wraiths 

Upon  such  purple  nights  proud  spirits  go 

Like  flames  from  church  to  palace, — warrior,  sage, 

Savonarola,  Fra  Angelico, 

Dante  in  youth,  not  Dante  in  his  age. 

VI 

The  Path  of  Armies 

Homeward!    No  marvel  ranks  of  cypress  grow 
Along  that  route  the  lords  of  terror  trod, — 

Names  whispered  yet  by  Tiber  and  by  Po, 

Theodoric,  Hannibal,  the  "  Scourge  of  God." 


[218] 

vn 
Rome 

Ruins  on  ruins !     O  eternal  city, 

Thou  palimpsest  of  all  the  past,  what  soul 
Can  give  thy  martyr  host  its  meed  of  pity, 

Or  bear  thy  doom's  reverberant  thunder-roll? 

vrn 
The  A p plan  Way 

What  is  the  past?    Didst  find  it  where  we  went 
Far  out  on  that  enmarbled,  scriptured  Way? 

We  found  the  unappeasable  lament, 
Bewildered  cry  of  spirit  over  clay. 

IX 

Naples 

On  through  the  silver  rain  to  one  swift  smile 

Of  sunset  on  an  opalescent  bay, 
Vesuvius  benignly  blue  the  while, 

Forgetful  of  his  fatal  yesterday. 

x 

On  Classic  Waters 

By  turquoise  Capri,  pearly-throned  Sorrento, 
We  sailed  the  sea  old  Neptune  dominates, 

Past  Stromboli,  who  flung  us  for  memento 

A  globe  of  fire,  and  through  the  narrow  gates. 


[219] 

EGYPT 

i 
Alexandria 

The  Pharos  dark  against  a  dawn  whose  gold 
Outshone  Hypatia's  dream ;  a  sea  besprent 

With  boats ;  then  palms,  and  stately  figures  stoled, 
Red-fezzed,  white-turbaned,  veiled.    The  Orient ! 

n 

The  Delta 

Mizraim !  patriarchal  camel-trains, 

Gray  buffaloes  by  lithe  brown  boys  bestrid, 

Clay  villages,  and  look !  beyond  the  plains, 
The  silver  outlines  of  a  pyramid. 

in 
Cairo 

The  Arabian  Nights!  a  jewel  city  clad  in 
Color  and  sheen !    The  latticed  harem  listens 

To  the  muezzin's  sweet-toned  call.     Aladdin 
Rubs  life's  enchanted  lamp  until  it  glistens. 

IV 

The  Sphinx 

Thou  Watcher  of  the  East  six  thousand  years, 
Indomitable  Hope  the  sands  entomb 

Only  to  yield  again,  what  have  the  spheres 
Confided  to  thee?    Thou  awaitest  Whom? 


[220] 

v 

Karnak 

Marmoreal  chaos !  wilderness  of  shrines ! 

How  pale  the  melancholy  moonlight  falls 
On  obelisk  and  column,  cut  with  signs 

Of  perished  pomps  and  silent  rituals ! 

VI 

Our  Vision 

Poor  heathen  gods !     Whither  did  Isis  soar 

On  her  bright  vulture  wings  —  the  wings  that  we 

Saw,  plumed  with  sunset,  overspread  once  more 
Her  Egypt  of  the  Lily  and  the  Bee? 

vn 
Luxor 

Amen  and  Mut  and  Khonsu,  faintly  flushed 
On  wall  and  pillar,  in  vain  patience  hark ; 

Their  beautiful  brown  colonnades  are  hushed 
Save  for  soft  pipings  of  the  crested  lark. 

vin 
The  Valley  of  the  Tombs  of  the  Kings 

Pharaohs  tyrannical  in  very  death ! 

Nature  must  die  with  them.   No  least  green  thrust 
In  all  this  ghastly  vale  that  compasseth 

Their  golden-shrined,  imperishable  dust. 


IX 

Abydos 

But  where,  divine  Osiris,  gracious  Master 

Over  the  Field  of  Peace,  dread  Lord  of  Doom, 

Beneath  these  fallen  fanes  of  alabaster 
Is  thy  mysterious,  defeated  tomb? 

x 

Philae 

The  Pearl  of  Egypt !    Once  the  Holy  Isle 
And  now  itself  a  sacrifice.     The  oar 

Shoves  ruthlessly  against  the  dim,  drowned  smile 
Of  piteous  gods  whose  wrath  is  feared  no  more. 

XI 

Abu  Simbel 

Of  Egypt's  countless  altars,  only  one 
Hath  still  adoring  fires ;  one  only  block 

Is  warmed  with  worship  of  the  dawning  sun 
That  pierces  to  it  through  the  riven  rock. 

XII 

The  Nile 

But  rest  we  votaries  of  the  Lotus-crowned 

And  the  Papyrus-crowned,  the  blended  stream 

That  flows  through  memory  with  a  hidden  sound 
Of  ancient  music,  a  perpetual  dream. 


[  222] 

PALESTINE 
i 

First  View  of  the  Holy  Land 

Faint  in  the  pearly  dawn,  a  silver  line 

It  gleamed  upon  the  sea ;  our  hearts  were  there 

Before  our  vision,  your  dear  heart  and  mine, 
And  every  face  about  us  was  a  prayer. 

ii 
Carmel 

Long,  level  mount  in  purple  fold  on  fold 
Of  shadow,  with  the  rainbow  arch  above. 

In  lieu  of  Egypt's  burning  blue  and  gold, 
Low,  tender  skies  of  sorrow  and  of  love. 

in 
At  Bethlehem 

A  Russian  pilgrim  fell  with  gesture  wild 
Before  the  manger ;  while  in  circuit  shy 

A  sweet  young  mother  kissed  the  walls  and  smiled 
And  softly  sang  a  Syrian  lullaby. 

IV 

At  Nazareth 

A  little  Child,  a  Joy-of-Heart,  with  eyes 
Unsearchable,  he  grew  in  Nazareth, 

His  daily  speech  so  innocently  wise 

That  all  the  town  went  telling:   "  Jesus  saith." 


[223] 


By  the  Sea  of  Galilee 

Erect  in  youthful  grace  and  radiant 

With  spirit  forces,  all  imparadised 
In  a  divine  compassion,  down  the  slant 

Of  these  remembering  hills  He  came,  the  Christ. 

VI 

In  His  Steps 

Should  not  the  glowing  lilies  of  the  field 

With  keener  splendor  mark  His  footprints  yet 

— Prints  of  the  gentle  feet  whose  passing  healed 
All  blight  from  Tabor  unto  Olivet? 

VII 

At  Gethsemane 

There  is  a  sighing  in  the  pallid  sprays 
Of  these  old  olives,  as  if  still  they  kept 

Their  pitying  watch,  in  Nature's  faithful  ways, 
As  on  that  night  when  the  disciples  slept. 

vin 
At  Jerusalem 

Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  how  oft 

His  love  had  gathered  thee  beneath  its  wings 
And  thou  wouldst  not !  —    Love  crucified  aloft 

On  Calvary,  enthroned  the  King  of  Kings. 


IX 

At  Calvary 

O  Death,  where  is  thy  victory  over  Love? 

Thy  worst,  the  cross  of  torture,  crown  of  scorn, 
Love  took  and  made  exceeding  joy  thereof, 

Illimitable  joy  of  Easter  morn. 


FIRST  VIEW  OF  MONT  BLANC 

FROM  dim  aerial  depths-  a  silver  light 
Stole  forth,  and  formed,  and  soared  against  the  sky, 
A  domelike  summit,  gloriously  bright, 

The  adoration  of  the  gazing  eye, 

Mont  Blanc.     O  beautiful  beyond  all  dream, 

That  thou  for  our  great  longing  shouldst  put  by 

Thy  curtains  woven  soft  with  mist,  and  gleam 
In  such  a  splendor!  Queen  of  Air,  are  those 
Lustres  miraculously  white,  supreme 

In  sparkling  radiance  on  the  blue  repose 

Of  heaven,  thy  diamond-crusted  veils,  thy  frore, 

Virginal  vesture  of  eternal  snows? 

We  have  beheld  the  vision.     Evermore 
Must  our  poor  life  be  nobler  than  before. 


[225] 

THE  GLACIER  OF  BOSSONS 

IT  gleams  athwart  the  rain  a  spectral  river, 
Risen  from  out  the  dim  and  plunging  down 
Into  the  dim  again, —  a  thing  to  shiver 
The  pomp  and  pleasure  of  this  little  town 
Nestling  beneath  its  checked,  sinister  flow. 
O  glacial  torrent,  should  God  let  thee  go ! 

Mont  Blanc  and  all  her  lovely  court  are  hidden, 

But  there  thou  gleamest,  scaled  with  frosty  white, 
Upgathered  like  some  monstrous  creature  chidden 
In  act  to  spring,  thy  prey  within  thy  sight, 
Biding  thine  hour,  relentless,  stealthy,  slow, 
The  sullen  spawn  of  ever-breeding  snow. 

And  yet  how  beautiful,  with  glints  of  beryl 

Upon  thy  crested  waves,  those  waves  that  heard 
Creation's  primal  song,  thou  frozen  Peril, 
Arrested  in  thy  fury  by  a  word 
Aeons  of  awful  centuries  ago ! 
The  stars  remember  and  the  thunders  know. 


THE  JUNGFRAU 

IT  is  the  hour  when  yon  stern  height 
Puts  on  her  bridal  grace, 
The  hour  when  day's  departing  light 
Steals  to  her  lonely  face, 


And  touches  every  rugged  line 
With  such  ethereal  gleam, 

The  crystal  mountain  stands  divine, 
A  maiden  in  her  dream. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  BLONAY 

HOW  quietly  it  feeds  the  eye 
This  soft  autumnal  day, 
'Twixt  yellowing  woods  and  misted  sky, 
The  Castle  of  Blonay ! 

Calm  on  the  russet  mountain-side 

It  holds  seigniorial  state. 
The  glittering  lords  who  used  to  ride 

Through  its  reverberant  gate, 

Now,  their  last  battle  lost  or  won, 

Are  dust  upon  the  air ; 
Their  ladies,  bliss  and  anguish  done, 

The  beauty  and  the  prayer, 

Have  long  been  comforted  of  sleep; 

The  judgment-seal  is  set 
On  the  black  secrets  of  that  deep, 

Sinister  oubliette. 

Enchanted  Castle  of  Blonay, 
Tranced  in  a  timeless  dream, 

Thy  lofty  walls  of  lustrous  gray, 
An  immemorial  gleam 


Across  the  Alpine  solitudes, 

Hold  at  an  equal  price 
The  chamois  and  the  eagle  broods, 

Gentian  and  edelweiss, 

And  man,  unenvying  us  our  sip 

Of  life's  mysterious  wine, 
That  cup  just  offered  to  the  lip, 

So  brief  and  so  divine. 

But  tranquilly  thy  casements  view 

The  Dent  du  Midi  mount, 
Whose  seven  snow-peaks  are  still  too  few 

Thy  centuries  to  count. 

Thy  vassal  ranks  of  poplars  fade 

From  green  to  saffron  stain ; 
The  poplars  fall,  yet  unafraid 

Thy  pinnacles  remain. 

What  subtle  wizardry  hath  spun 

Thy  charm  against  decay, 
Untroubled  in  the  setting  sun 

O  Castle  of  Blonay? 

TO  THE  NILE 

MOTHER  of  Egypt,  sister  of  old  Time, 
Thou  serpentine  green  thread  across  the  sands, 
Far- journeying  to  these  thy  craving  lands 
From  royal  equatorial  lakes  sublime, 


[  228] 

Pilgrim  of  snow-clad  Abyssinian  hills 

Whose  rushing  rain  thy  wilder  torrent  fills, 

Bearer  of  weal  or  woe 

To  the  dumb  millions,  fearful  multitudes 

Waiting  upon  thy  Cleopatra  moods, 

Wilt  thou  flow 

Till  our  doomed  star  to  desolation  chills? 

How  fares  it  with  thy  fierce,  capricious  heart 

Now  that  thine  hour  of  slavery  is  come? 

Full  oft  thy  galleys  gloomed  with  prisoners  swart, 

Neck  linked  to  helpless  neck,  whose  martyrdom 

Is  graved  along  thy  course  on  pylons  proud. 

To-day  thine  own  tyrannic  might  is  bowed 

To  bondage,  bidden  go 

Or  stay  as  this  new  wizardry  decrees ; 

The  granite  barrier  chafes  thy  beating  knees. 

Wilt  thou  flow 

Till  thou  hast  swept  its  dust  to  sea  and  cloud? 

Grotesqueries  and  lethargies  that  lie 

Huddled  in  pits  or  islanded  in  mud, 

Clusters  of  uncouth  hippopotami, 

Grim  crocodiles,  the  terrors  of  the  flood, 

What  amity  have  these  dim  broods  of  thine 

With  the  creative,  culminant  divine? 

As  shadows  in  the  glow 

Of  sunrise,  will  they  perish  in  the  birth 

Of  fresh  surprisals  for  the  joy-flushed  earth? 

Wilt  thou  flow 

Till  through  all  forms  triumphant  beauty  shine? 


[229] 

Thy  stript,  dishonored  Pharaohs,  vainly  hid 

In  golden  chambers  mystically  wrought 

At  musky  heart  of  cliff  or  pyramid, 

Impassive  majesties,  immortal  thought, 

Where  are  their  caravans,  with  burdensome 

Booty  of  ivory,  cedar,  fragrant  gum? 

The  ages  overthrow 

Their  calm,  colossal  statues  to  amerce 

Their  crimes,  remembering  the  captive's  curse. 

Wilt  thou  flow 

Until  the  hallowed  reign  of  pity  come? 

What  myriad  life  through  countless  centuries 

Hath  sprung  and  faded  on  thy  sparkling  sands, 

—  Futile  incertitudes  and  miseries, 

Swift,  printless  feet,  caressing,  vanished  hands! 

Thy  tragic  waters  bear  an  undertone 

Like  to  a  muffled  monochord  of  moan. 

What  bliss  didst  thou  bestow 

On  thy  brief  races  ere  upon  thy  bank 

The  draft  of  pale  eternity  they  drank? 

Dost  thou  know 

Why  such  ephemeral  being  suffers  so? 

Where  are  thy  bestial  gods  oracular, 
Hawk-headed  Horus  and  the  Apis  Bull, 
Ram,  Vulture,  Ape,  divinities  at  jar 
With  all  we  dream  of  pure  and  beautiful? 
Ghost-wise  they  come,  wind-footed  down  the  air, 
Drift  of  the  Dispossessed,  that  ill  can  bear 
The  minarets  below. 


[230] 

Thou  the  Papyrus-crowned  and  Lotus-crowned, 
Thou  who  hast  holy  Philae  dimmed  and  drowned. 
Wilt  thou  flow 
Till  all  be  God,  and  Heaven  be  everywhere? 

O  River  white  beneath  these  lustrous  stars, 

Sorceress  shriven  by  the  Southern  Cross, 

Is  there  an  end  to  agonies  and  wars? 

Will  hands  of  healing  comfort  every  loss? 

Thou  who  hast  seen  so  many,  many  days 

Flush  to  their  sunsets,  thou  of  ancient  praise 

For  magic,  whisper  low 

Some  prophecy  that  human  life  endears, 

Foreshadowing  the  secret  of  the  spheres. 

Wilt  thou  flow 

Till  Love  is  Wisdom,  and  the  Sphinx  decays  ? 


ABU  SIMBEL 


"TT  ERE  will  I  build  a  temple,  I  the  Lord, 

A  J.     Ramses  the  Great,  crowned  with  the  Double 

Crown, 

Son  of  the  Sun,  whose  chariot  wheels  swept  down 
The  hosts  of  Kadesh,  and  whose  thirsty  sword 

Hath  revelled  in  this  Ethiopian  horde, 

Smiting  their  necks.     To  teach  them  my  renown, 
Pyloned  and  obelisked  in  many  a  town, 
I  build  a  shrine  wherein  to  be  adored. 


Take  me  this  mountain  of  the  living  rock; 
Hew  it  and  hollow;  carve  its  river-face 
As  mountain  never  yet  was  carved,  to  bear 

My  likenesses  repeated  like  a  prayer ; 
Then  probe  it  to  its  inmost  secret  place, 
And  sculpture  godhood  from  the  savage  block." 

ii 

The  temple-cliff  against  the  soft,  deep  blue 
Of  Nubia's  star-sown  sky  stands  ashen-grey, 
Save  where  like  sifted  snow  or  frosted  spray 
The  moonlight  blanches  it.     Supreme  in  view 

Sit  throned  the  four  colossi,  emblems  true 
Of  thine  illimitable  pride,  thou  clay, 
Dust  of  the  desert,  Ramses,  strewn  to-day 
In  shattered  images  thine  Egypt  through. 

Yet  the  stupendous  Four  are  meek  to  Him 

Graved  at  the  hewn  rock's  heart,  eternal,  dim, 
A  God  with  Gods.     With  that  dread  Trinity, 

Burning  Harmachis,  and  the  death-white  Ptah 

And,  Lord  of  Thrones,  the  high-plumed  Ammon-Ra, 
The  Pharaoh  mates  his  mock  divinity. 


in 

The  dawn-light  steals  across  the  solemn  Nile, 
Warms  the  huge  knees  and  stony,  silent  lips 
Of  those  ranged  giants,  through  the  portal  slips 
And  up  the  great  Osiris  columns,  while 

Chamber  on  chamber  brightens,  aisle  on  aisle. 


The  walls  wax  wonderful  with  mystic  ships 
And  pageantry  of  war.     Blue  lotus  dips 
In  sacrifice,  and  sudden  faces  smile. 

Yet  poignant,  penetrant,  the  level  beam 

Strikes  down  those  dusky  courts  to  that  last  gloom 
Where  sit  the  Sun  of  Morning,  and  the  Sun 

Of  Zenith  Splendor,  and  the  Sun  in  Tomb 
Of  Night,  with  Ramses,  their  beloved  one, 
And  fires  their  altar  with  a  fleeting  gleam. 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  NILE 

THOUGH  Egypt  bows  her  forehead  to  the  dust, 
Adoring  Allah,  still  her  ancient  god, 
The  Sun-on-the-Horizon,  keeps  his  trust, 
And,  unbesought,  the  Nile  renews  her  sod. 

They  greet  each  other  in  the  holy  dawn, 
These  immemorial  deities,  whose  grace 

Is  now,  no  less  than  when  their  temples  shone 
With  gold,  the  life  and  being  of  the  race, 

Attesting  thus  the  nature  right  divine, 

Authentic  Love,  that,  worshipped  or  denied, 

Still  pours  its  gifts,  a  sun  that  can  but  shine, 
A  river  bearing  blessing  on  its  tide. 


[233] 

f 

MURILLO'S  "  HOLY  FAMILY  OF  THE  LITTLE 
BIRD  " 

(In  the  Prado) 

SO  sweetly  through  that  humble  home 
The  rippling  laughter  went 
That  Mary  felt  the  world's  blue  dome 
Too  small  for  her  content; 

And  careful  Joseph,  while  he  held 

The  boy  in  grave  caress, 
Wist  not  what  tender  thrill  dispelled 

His  workday  weariness. 

The  crown  set  softly,  only  rings 

Of  baby  hair  agleam 
With  lustres  dropt  from  angels'  wings 

And  starlight  down  a  dream. 

The  thorn-tree  was  a  seedling  still, 
And  with  laughter's  frolic  chime 

The  Christ-Child  did  his  Father's  will, 
As  when,  of  elder  time, 

A  ruddy  lad  in  Bethlehem 

Was  keeping  sheep  and  played 

Blithe  music  on  his  harp  to  them 
Before  the  psalms  were  made. 


PALM  SUNDAY  IN  GALILEE 

A  PALE  light  stealing  through  the  rainy  sky 
Like  peace  through  sorrow,  comforting  the  eye 
On  our  Palm  Sunday,  wayworn  pilgrims  three, 
Beside  the  lonely  lake  of  Galilee, 

—  Most  blest  of  lakes,  whose  hush  remembers  yet 
Those  multitudes  on  broad  Gcnnesaret, 

The  reaching  arms,  the  cries  that  still  pursued, 
As  Jesus  sought  the  mid-sea  solitude. 

How  oft  Mount  Hermon,  in  the  sunset  glow, 
Would  cleave  its  clouds,  exceeding  white  as  snow, 
An  alabaster  altar  crowned  with  fire, 
To  worship  Him,  the  blind  world's  long  Desire, 
The  Christ,  a  guest  in  some  rude  fishing-boat, 
Wrapt  in  His  seamless  Galilaean  coat, 
Forspent  with  healing,  drawing  heavy  breath, 
The  Lord  of  Life  Who  went  the  way  of  death. 

And  He,  on  Whom  our  mortal  weakness  weighed, 

—  Even  on  Him,  Whom  winds  and  waves  obeyed,— 
Would  peradventure  watch,  too  tired  for  prayer, 
That  sudden  splendor  melt  in  purple  air, 

As  dusk  drew  over  and  the  stars  shone  out, 
Until  the  murmurous  ripples,  that  about 
The  rocking  keel  intoned  their  timid  psalms, 
Were  to  His  slumber  like  the  sound  of  palms. 

If  then  stept  soft  the  sons  of  Zebedee 
To  ease  the  drooping  head  on  patient  knee 
Or  coil  of  nets  for  pillow,  surely  they 
Marvelled  above  the  Dreamer,  for  He  lay 


[235] 

With  tender  triumph  on  the  wistful  face, 

As  of  one  welcomed  by  the  waving  grace 

Of  fair  green  branches,  while  their  hearts  in  them 

Burned  with  impatience  for  Jerusalem. 


POPPIES 

OPPIES,  scarlet  poppies! 
Through  their  flush  have  gone, 
Oh,  how  many  dainty  feet, 
Luring  lovers  on ! 

Red  grow  tiny  poppies, 

Sunny  South  of  France. 
Red  the  blood  that  fed  thy  sweet 
Fields  of  old  romance. 

Poppies,  wind-blown  poppies ! 
Where's  the  singing  of 
Troubadours  that  by  their  gleam 
Sought  the  Courts  of  Love? 
Pirouetting  poppies! 

Hearts  they've  set  a-dance, 
—  Kings  of  tourney,  kings  of  dream, 
Kings  of  sunny  France! 

Poppies,  poppies,  poppies, 
Glowing  in  the  sun ! 
So  have  scarlet  poppies  glowed 
Since  the  world  begun. 


[236] 

And  the  flame  of  poppies 
O'er  thy  -fields  shall  run, 

Fervent  France,  a  lovers9  road, 
Till  the  world  is  done. 


JUNE  IN  ENGLAND 

THE  golden,  drooped  laburnum,  and  the  May, 
The  pink  May  and  the  white,  the  chestnut  trees 
Flush-blossomed,  snowy-blossomed!   What  of  these? 
We  are  but  human.     Let  the  throstle  say. 

Low  skies  wherefrom  the  tender  colors  fail, 
A  dim  wood  mystical  with  fragrances 
Upbreathed  by  the  bluebell!     What  of  these? 

Nay,  we're  but  human.     Hear  the  nightingale. 


FURNESS  ABBEY 

THE  treasure  of  the  valley,  red  and  tall 
They  rise,  those  sandstone  fragments,  overgrown 
With  fern  and  ivy  and  sweet  blossom  sown 
By  pitying  winds.     From  broken  arch  and  wall 
The  harebell  glistens ;  nightshade  thickets  pall 
Bruised  effigy  and  sunken  altar-stone. 
What  man  rejected,  Nature  makes  her  own; 
Her  comfort  creeps  where  cross  and  pillar  fall. 


[237] 

Still  sacred,  though  in  lieu  of  white  procession 
Of  chanting  monks,  the  mossy  shafts  look  down 
On  children's  blithe-voiced  play ;  though  robins  nest 

In  sculptured  angel-wing  and  carven  crown ; 

Perchance  more  sacred,  for  the  heart's  confession 
Lies  bare  to  Him,  the  heart's  eternal  Quest. 


VIGNETTES  FROM  LINCOLNSHIRE 

The  Lincoln  Imp 

HOW  well  it  works !    He  has  a  holiday 
From  the  unpleasant  fire, 

And  makes  more  money  for  the  town,  they  say, 
Than  all  the  Angel  Choir. 

Church  of  St.  Faith,  Kelstern 

i 

Without 

A  very  devil's  face  grotesquely  set 

High  on  the  hoary  tower  insults  the  skies 

With  black  and  swollen  tongue  outthrust,  while  yet 
Strange  terror  drowns  the  mockery  in  his  eyes. 


[238] 

n 

Within 

Monument  erected  by  Sir  Francis  South 

to 
Elizabeth  his  wife,  1604. 

In  ruff  and  farthingale  the  mother  keeps 

Three-centuried  watch  lest  psalm  or  anthem  fret 

The  quiet  of  her  cradled  child  who  sleeps 
Lapt  soft  in  alabaster  coverlet. 

Time  parodies  thy  dimples,  baby-face. 

He  mars  the  stone,  but  not  the  peace  within. 
Rest,  little  sleeper,  in  God's  special  grace ; 

Only  the  ages  touch  thee,  not  their  sin. 

South  Somercotes  Church 

All  hail,  Queen  of  the  Marsh! 

We  sailors  from  the  foam 
Dream  not  thy  spire  is  grim  and  harsh. 

The  spire  that  guides  us  home. 


Gargoyles  of  Grimoldby  Church 

Gross,  brutal  demons,  struggling  to  escape 
From  holy  sounds,  with  half  the  body  out, 

Half  prisoned  in  the  stone.     Green  lichens  drape 

Broad  jowls,   and  weeds   from  monstrous   shoulders 
sprout. 


[239] 

'Midst  these,  two  portrait  busts,  antiquely  ruffed 

And  capped,  strain  forth,  the  faces  keen  with  strife. 

Each  head  is  plumed  with  grass,  a  ghostly  tuft 
Still  quivering  from  that  ancient  rage  of  life. 

Uphall  Manor 

Pale  wraiths  of  long  ago  my  quest  pursued, 
A  story  dim  with  time,  a  parchment  rent. 
I  found  boy  husband  and  girl  wife  intent 

Upon  a  cradle  where  a  baby  cooed. 

The  Lincolnshire  Rebellion 

From  these  poor  wolds  was  Henry  VIII  defied. 
The  foolish  people,  grieving  for  the  pains 
Of  monks,  old  neighbors,  whose  dismantled  fanes 

Dotted  the  marshes,  rose,  protested,  died. 


ON  THE  MALVERN  HILLS 

THESE  are  the  hills  our  poet  Langland  trod, 
"  Weary  forwandered,"  from  the  sunrise  flush 

To  amber  evening  thrilled  by  merle  and  thrush, 

Long  Will,  whose  sombre  soul  went  pilgrim-shod 
Seeking  Saint  Truth.     Men  called  him  churl  and  clod; 

He  heard  them  not,  rapt  in  his  dream's  deep  hush ; 

Hardly  he  heard  the  merry  waters  gush; 

Still  wandering  with  no  company  but  God. 
These  hills  are  holy  ground  because  of  thee, 

O  earthborn  who  wouldst  make  no  peace  with  earth, 


[240] 

Craving  that  visionary  clime  where  all 
Thy  troubled  field  of  folk  at  last  shall  be 
One  brotherhood  in  labor  and  in  mirth, 
And  not  a  blessing  undivided  fall. 

THE  CHURCH  OF  ST.  SAVIOUR 

Southward.     London. 

Here    Edmund    Shakespeare,   "a    player,"   the   poet's   youngest 
brother,  was  buried  December  31,  1607,  aged  27. 

ST.  Mary  Overie's  once,  St.  Saviour's  now, 
A  thousand  years  of  sanctity  are  thine. 
Crusaders,  martyrs,  sages,  queens  endow 

With  memories  thy  venerable  shrine. 
The  poets'  pilgrim  with  hushed  footfall  roams 

Through  whispering  aisles  of  old,  melodious  names, 
—  Grave  Gower,  pillowed  on  his  ponderous  tomes ; 

Fletcher,  too  far  from  Beaumont,  leaping  flames 
That  blended  into  one  immortal  glow ; 

And  "  Massinger,  A  Stranger."     Ah,  and  well 
The  heart  may  hear  from  out  the  Long  Ago 

That  throbbing  "  forenoon  knell  of  the  great  bell," 
When  Shakespeare  paced  beside  a  brother's  bier, 

Musing  on  broken  hopes  and  plans  ill-sped, 
And  gently  laid  the  unlaureled  dreamer  here 

Among  the  stateliest  of  Southwark's  dead. 
Long  have  the  echoes  of  the  voices  slept 

That  chanted  the  young  player  to  his  rest, 
But  in  the  church  where  William  Shakespeare  wept, 

A  ghostly  sorrow  steals  upon  the  breast. 


[341] 


AT  TINTERN 

THE  moonlit  ruins  rise  austere, 
Most  desolate,  most  fair. 
The  old  Cistercian  rule  is  here, 
Unceasing  hush  of  prayer. 

Beneath  the  river-mists  abide 
Soft  flows  of  murmurous  sound 

That  Silence  hath  no  heart  to  chide 
From  off  her  magic  bound; 

But  silvered  column,  arch  and  wall 

In  utter  quiet  gleam, 
A  radiant  fabric  mystical, 

A  masonry  of  dream. 

The  grass  on  yonder  capital 

Is  still  as  stone  arcade, 
And  not  one  ivy-leaf  of  all 

May  shift  her  inch  of  shade. 

In  at  the  mullioned  windows  peep 

The  dusky  hills  and  lean 
In  circle  close  to  guard  the  sleep 

Of  this  enchanted  scene. 

Where  the  High  Altar  used  to  stand, 
The  moonlight  seems  to  shape 

A  kneeling  figure,  lifted  hand, 
Monastic  cowl  and  cape. 


] 

Hath  some  White  Brother  stolen  away 

From  out  the  heavenly  host 
Here  in  his  wonted  place  to  pray? 

Content  thee,  wistful  ghost! 

Thy  fane  is  open  to  the  sky, 

But  as  in  vigils  gone, 
Drowsy  responses  from  the  Wye 

Attend  thine  orison. 

The  ancient  calms  encompass  thee, 

And  on  their  hush  is  shed 
A  new,  divine  tranquility, 

The  beauty  of  the  dead. 

AT  WELLS 

i 
Dumb 

chime,  they  chime,  the  sweet  cathedral  bells, 
-•-       Cleaving  my  cloudy  thought,  if  murkiest  cloud 

E'er  hung  so  heavy  as,  on  spirit  bowed, 

This  drear  confusion  weighs.     Where  is  it  dwells 
My  truth  of  soul?    What  veil  of  shifting  spells, 

Duties  unduteous,  glamours  disallowed, 

Myself  doth  from  myself  forever  shroud? 

Once  more  that  silver-throated  peal  outwells. 
Amid  the  chanting  throng  I  kneel  alone, 

Mute,  dull  of  heart,  yet  fain  to  screen  the  brow. 

Interpret  me  to  Heaven,  deep  organ  tone! 


Oh,  soaring  arch,  bear  witness  for  me  now ! 

My  dumb  God-passion  speak,  great  minster,  thou 
For  centuries  a  human  prayer  in  stone ! 

ii 
Matins 

Clamor  of  rooks  from  pinnacle  and  spire 

Hails  an  encrimsoned  east;  but  chill  and  gray 

Below  the  pillared  vistas  arch  away 

Through  shadowy  nave  to  glory-smitten  choir, 

Where  Orient  sunbeams  thrill  with  jeweled  fire 
The  dreaming  glass  that  blossoms  unto  day 
In  roseate  plumes  and  golden  halo-ray 
And  seraph  faces  rapt  with  God-desire. 

Ah,  yet  these  walls,  though  hoary  with  the  woe 
And  shrift  of  centuries,  are  all  too  strait 
For  such  a  splendor.     From  the  elm-roofed  lawn, 

Where  throstles  chant  and  streams  responsive  flow, 
I'll  worship  Him  on  Whom  my  longings  wait, 
Before  the  great  east  window  of  the  dawn. 

SAILING-DAY  AT  CLOVELLY 

RARE  Clovelly,  Devon's  gem, 
From  the  silvery  ocean-hem 
Climbing  up  the  narrow  cleft, 
Wooded  slopes  to  right  and  left, 
Why  this  sweet  midsummer  morn 
Is  thy  gallant  heart  forlorn? 
For  beneath  the  arching  vine 
Where  the  cottage  doorways  line, 


Brow  to  brow,  thy  stone-wrought  stair, 

Sobs  of  women  weigh  the  air ; 

All  dismayed  the  children  stand, 

Seeking  each  an  elder  hand; 

And  thy  gossip,  wondrous  old, 

Wont  his  daily  state  to  hold 

On  the  seaward-looking  wall, 

Where  the  warmest  sunbeams  fall, 

Sinks  his  chin  upon  his  staff, 

Missing  sailor  yarn  and  chaff, 

Neighbor  news  and  quay  report 

Of  his  bronzed,  blue- jacket  court. 

Sailing-day!     The  eager  tide, 

Mounting  now  the  cliff's  red  side. 

Redder  for  the  dashing  spray, 

On  its  ebb  will  bear  away 

Lads  beloved  of  all,  for  in 

Proud  Clovelly  all  are  kin. 

Bold  the  groom  who  leadeth  home 

Maiden  bred  beyond  the  combe ; 

Warmly  must  a  stranger  plead 

Ere  the  cliff -born  beauty  heed; 

And  to-day,  though  few  depart, 

Many  are  the  eyes  a-smart 

With  unwonted  tears  that  run 

For  a  brother,  nephew,  son. 

As,  should  hidden  rock-point  fret 

Yonder  tawny  fishing-net, 

All  the  fibres  feel  the  strain, 

Even  thus  the  parting-pain 

Every  ingle's  mirth  must  mar,. 

Woven  so  these  heart-strings  are. 


Yet  beware,  O  weeping  eyes ! 

Still  in  grief  let  love  be  wise. 

Still  in  grief  let  love  recall 

All  is  saved  by  yielding  all. 

While  these  youthful  hearts  are  great, 

Glad,  heroic,  passionate, 

In  the  hour  that  bids  them  rise 

To  their  manhood's  destinies, 

111  it  were  of  love  to  mar 

With  a  cloud  the  guiding  star. 

Would  Clovelly  hold  her  own, 

Be  no  bonds  about  them  thrown ; 

Smile  and  blessing  set  them  free 

For  the  fair,  enchanted  sea ; 

Let  them  rove,  as  they  are  fain, 

All  the  opalescent  plain. 

Through  the  lonely  months  and  years 

Will  be  time  enough  for  tears. 

Set  them  free.     The  ocean-spell 

Sways  its  hour,  but  know  ye  well, 

Many  and  many  a  whispering  night 

While  the  phosphorescent  light 

Twinkles  in  the  creamy  wake, 

On  the  sailor's  watch  will  break 

Vision  of  a  cliff-bound  bay, 

Where  the  pearl  and  beryl  play 

On  the  changeful  waves.     In  trance 

Shall  he  mark  the  merry  dance 

Of  the  tan-sailed  fishing-fleet; 

See  the  sheer  and  crannied  street, 

Musical  with  children's  glee, 


[246] 

Bright  with  rose  and  fuchsia  tree, 
And  above,  the  beach-grown  heights 
Where  the  cooing  dove  delights 
O'er  the  heather  and  the  gorse, — 
Dreams  that  guide  the  good  ship's  course 
Whither,  by  the  singing  main, 
Love  shall  greet  her  own  again. 


IN  CORNWALL 

A    HOMESICKNESS  of  forty  years, 
-L\.   A  quest  across  two  hemispheres, — 
No  wonder  that  wan  face 
Shone  like  a  soul  in  grace. 

Yet  hedgebanks  rough  and  slates  cast  by 
From  worn-out  quarries,  lowering  sky, 

—  What  scene  was  this  to  move 

Such  ecstasy  of  love! 

Nay,  Love,  that  looks  by  deeper  law 
Than  sense,  saw  what  his  childhood  saw, 

Adventure,  glory,  joy, 

The  godhood  of  a  boy. 

Those  glistening  eyes,  where  teardrops  strayed 
In  laughter,  their  own  rainbow  made, 

And  when  the  road  ran  down 

Into  a  poor  gray  town, 


[247] 

God  help  the  man!  he  drank  it  so 
With  thirsty  look,  agaze,  aglow, 
Trembling  in  all  his  frame 
As  through  the  street  we  came ; 

While  broken,  sweet,  unconscious  words 
Fell  from  his  lips,  as  drowsy  birds 

Down  the  dim  treetops  float 

A  fragmentary  note. 

Strange  kith  and  kin  about  him  pressed. 
His  smile  slipped  past  them  all  to  rest 

Upon  the  murmuring  stream, 

Music  of  many  a  dream 

Dreamt  'neath  the  keen  Australian  stars, 
And  where  the  turquoise-seeker  mars 
Stern  Sinai's  solemn  vast, 
—  A  dream  come  true  at  last. 


Oft  current-crost  and  Pixie-led, 
From  those  long  years  in  exile  sped 

Few  golden  sheaves  brought  he, 

A  sower  in  the  sea; 

But  ah !  we  had  not  thought  to  view 
This  side  the  tapestries  of  blue, 

Not  on  this  mortal  side, 

A  look  so  satisfied. 


SEA-BIRDS 

LIKE  beryl  which  some  mighty  alchemist 
Has  molten  with  turquoise  and  amethyst, 
And  shot  with  diamond,  leagues  on  leagues  away 
The  ocean  plunges  in  tremendous  play. 

'Twas  so  Columbus  saw  it,  Cabot  so, 
Those  far-eyed  sailors  of  the  Long  Ago. 
The  dauntless  Vikings  drove  their  dragon-prow 
Down  such  a  shimmering  road  as  rocks  us  now. 

But  what  were  they,  and  what,  ah,  what  are  we? 
No  more  to  life  than  sea-birds  to  the  sea, 
That  recks  not  of  the  million  million  gone 
While  still  new  millions  toss  the  sparkle  on. 

And  shall  the  sea-bird  quarrel  with  the  sea? 
To  dip  the  wing  in  joy  and  then  to  be 
Where  broken  foam,  lost  sunrise,  fallen  star 
Hold  court  together,  is  it  cause  for  war? 


IX 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  SPANISH  FOLK-SONG 


COPLAS 

1 

IN  this  world,  my  masters, 
There's  neither  truth  nor  lie, 
But  all  things  take  the  color 
Of  the  glass  before  the  eye. 


If  you  put  faith  in  friendship 

Your  dearest  friend  will  shock  it. 

Oh,  pooh !     There  is  no  friend  but  God, 
And  a  dollar  in  the  pocket. 


"  Law,  law, 

Whither  away?  " 
"  Whithersoever 

The  King  may  say.3 


In  a  saddle-bag  over  my  shoulder 

Vices  I  bore,  but  mind ! 
In  front  I  carried  my  neighbor's ; 

My  own  I  had  slung  behind. 

251 


5 

Let  no  one  dare  in  this  world  to  say, 
"  Of  this  water  I  will  not  drink." 

Though  muddy  the  stream,  a  mighty  thirst 
May  drive  thee  to  its  brink. 

6 

Far  is  the  town; 

Rough  is  the  road ; 
When  the  donkey  falls  down, 

Don't  double  the  load. 

7 

"  Better  have  wisdom  than  wealth," 
Say  the  people,  far-discerning. 

Your  poor  man  may  yet  be  rich, 

But  your  rich  man  can't  buy  learning. 

8 

From  the  King  you  may  take 
Crown,  sceptre  and  ring, 

But  not  the  glory 
Of  having  been  king. 

9 

Who  shuns  temptation 

Shuns  a  fall. 
If  the  door  is  locked, 

The  Devil  won't  call. 


[253] 

10 

I  was  born  in  a  bell-tower 

—  So  my  mother  tells.  — 
When  my  sponsors  came  to  the  churching, 

I  was  ringing  the  bells. 

11 

When  once  the  cat 

Has  stolen  the  fish, 
Long  may  you  wait 

Her  return  to  the  dish. 


With  plenty  of  children 

There's  no  question 
Of  a  mother  dying 

From  indigestion. 

13 

I  would  rather  be  a  soldier, 
Or  a  friar  with  naked  feet, 

Than  take  to  me  a  wife 

At  the  present  price  of  wheat. 

14 

Alone  I  am,  I  was  born  alone, 
And  never  have  I  twinned, 

But  all  alone  I  rove  the  world 
Like  a  feather  in  the  wind. 


15 

North-wind,  North-wind, 

Strong  as  wine ! 
Blow  thou,  North-wind, 

Comrade  mine ! 

16 

Why  to  Castile 

For  your  fortune  go? 
A  man's  Castile 

Is  under  his  hoe. 

17 

Said  the  leaf  to  the  flower:   "  O  fie! 

You  put  on  airs  indeed! 
But  we  sprang,  both  you  and  I, 

From  the  selfsame  little  brown  seed." 

18 

Hopes  are  like  laurels, 

As  clearly  is  seen, 
For  they  never  give  fruit 

And  are  always  green. 

19 

"What  is  a  student's  cloak  like?" 
"A  flower-garden."     "True; 

For  it  is  full  of  patches 
Of  every  hue." 


[255] 

20 

If  you  would  have  money 

Forever  and  a  day, 
The  first  that  comes  into  your  hand 

Do  not  throw  away. 

21 

My  husband  went  to  the  Indies. 

He  sailed  with  the  Cuban  fleet. 
He  sent  me  a  knife  and  a  letter  that  said: 

"  Work,  if  you  want  to  eat." 

22 

My  husband  went  to  the  Indies 
To  increase  his  wealth's  amount. 

He  brought  back  many  things  to  tell, 
But  very  few  to  count. 

23 

"Gypsy,  why  are  you  chased  so  fast?" 

"  Senor,  the  folks  are  fools. 
I've  only  stolen  a  halter  rope 

—  And  with  it  four  pair  of  mules." 

24 

There  runs  a  swine  down  yonder  hill, 

As  fast  as  ever  he  can ; 
And  as  he  runs  he  crieth  still, 

"  Come  steal  me,  Gypsyman." 


[256] 

25 

The  armless  beggar  has  written  a  letter; 

The  blind  one  finds  the  writing  clear; 
The  mute  is  reading  it  aloud, 

And  the  deaf  one  runs  to  hear. 

26 

To  a  deaf  man  sang  a  mute, 

With  a  smile  upon  his  phiz. 
A  blind  man  stood  and  watched  them. 

What  a  world  it  is ! 

27 

A  ragged  man  has  clothes  for  sale; 

The  bald  sells  combs,  and  here 
Is  a  blind  man  vending  spectacles. 

This  world  of  ours  is  queer. 

28 

Francisca,  be  careful  how  you  awake 
A  certain  bad  little  red  little  snake. 
The  sun  strikes  hot,  but  old  and  young 
Stand  more  in  dread  of  a  bitter  tongue. 

£9 

Garden  without  water, 

House  without  a  roof, 
Wife  whose  talk  is  all 

Scolding  and  reproof, 


[257] 

Husband  who  forgets  his  home 

In  the  tavern  revel  — 
Here  are  four  things 

Ready  for  the  Devil. 

30 

Here  lies  Sister  Claribel, 
Who  made  sweetmeats  very  well, 
And  passed  her  life  in  pious  follies, 
Such  as  dressing  waxen  dollies. 

31 

From  mouth  to  mouth  —  as  bees  that  dip 
And  hum  in  noontide  sunny  — 

A  ballad  flew,  and  on  my  lip 
It  left  a  drop  of  honey. 


Love  sways  all; 

Money  transcends  all; 
Time  decays  all, 

And  Death  ends  all. 


In  the  porch  of  Bethlehem, 
Sun,  Moon,  and  Star, 

The  Virgin,  St.  Joseph, 
And  the  Christ  Child  are. 


[258] 


Mary  has  no  cradle 

In  which  to  lay  her  Son, 
But  His  father  is  a  carpenter, 

And  he  will  make  Him  one. 

35 

The  Virgin  rested,  clad  in  blue, 

Beneath  an  olive  tree, 
And  all  the  boughs  bent  low  to  view 

The  Baby  on  her  knee. 

36 

Where  her  happy  heart  was  beating, 
Mary  tucked  her  darling  in, 

Singing  softly :   "  Oh,  my  sweeting, 
Love  the  poor  and  pardon  sin." 

37 

St.  John  and  Mary  Magdalen 
Played  hide  and  seek,  the  pair, 

Till  St.  John  threw  a  shoe  at  her, 
Because  she  didn't  play  fair. 

38 

The  little  birds  among  the  reeds, 
God's  trumpeters  are  they, 

For  they  hail  the  Sun  with  music 
And  wish  him  happy  day. 


[259] 

39 

Vainly  to  the  shrine 

Goes  poor  Jose; 
His  saint  is  out 

Of  sorts  to-day. 

40 

They  say  I  have  stolen  an  altar-cup, 
—  A  lie,  my  good  name  to  smirch  ; 

For  since  the  day  that  I  was  baptized, 
I  have  not  entered  the  church. 

41 

I  am  too  lame  to  go  to  mass 
—  A  loss  I  much  deplore, 

But  see  how  slow  I  hobble 
To  the  tavern  door. 


A  cobbler  went  to  mass, 

But  he  didn't  know  how  to  pray. 
He  walked  by  the  altars,  asking  the  saints 

"  Any  shoes  to  be  mended  to-day?  " 


To  the  jasper  threshold  of  heaven 
His  bench  the  cobbler  brings : 

"  Shoes  for  these  little  angels 
Who  have  nothing  to  wear  but  wings.5 


[260] 

44 

I  would  not  be  afraid  of  Death 
Though  I  saw  him  walking  by, 

For  without  God's  permission 
He  cannot  kill  a  fly. 

45 

The  reason  the  hedgehog  has  such  soft  hair 
—  At  least  so  runs  the  rumor  — 

Is  that  God  created  that  creature  there, 
When  God  was  out  of  humor. 

46 

You  say  your  taste  is  for  cinnamon, 
And  for  saffron  yours,  my  friends; 

But  mine  is  the  only  Catholic  taste, 
A  taste  for  whatever  God  sends. 

47 

Alas!  Our  Mother  of  Healing, 

Mother  of  those  in  pain! 
Our  wheat  is  perishing  with  drought. 

Send  thy  holy  rain. 

48 

As  I  was  telling  my  beads, 

While  the  dawn  was  red, 
The  Virgin  came  to  greet  me 

With  her  arms  outspread. 


[261] 

49 

When  to  mass  in  the  temple  of  Solomon 

The  Virgin  went,  behold! 
The  Sunday  raiment  that  she  had  on 

Was  of  heavenly  blue  and  gold. 

50 

Thursdays  three  in  the  year  there  be, 

That  shine  more  bright  than  the  sun's  own 
ray  — 

Holy  Thursday,  Corpus  Christi, 
And  our  Lord's  Ascension  Day. 

51 

The  swallows  on  Mount  Calvary 

Plucked  tenderly  away 
From  the  brows  of  Christ  two  thousand  thorns, 

Such  gracious  birds  are  they. 


Far  away,  on  Calvary  hill, 
The  olive  woods  are  sweet  and  still. 
There  four  larks  and  a  nightingale 
The  death  of  Jesus  Christ  bewail. 


When  the  priest  at  the  altar  lifted  up 
The  Body  of  God,  Christ  said  to  me 

"  Drink  life  eternal  from  the  cup 
Wherein  I  tasted  death  for  thee." 


54 

The  Giralda  says  she  wouldn't  be  French, 

Not  for  many  a  million. 
The  Giralda  says  she's  Spanish, 

Andalusian  and  Sevillian. 

55 

I  am  the  King's  poor  soldier ; 

Mine  honor  is  my  own ; 
But  while  the  King  maintains  me, 

I'll  maintain  his  throne. 

56 

To-morrow  comes  the  drawing  of  lots ; 

The  chosen  march  delighted, 
And  leave  the  girls  behind  with  those 

Whom  the  King  has  not  invited. 

57 

Girls,  if  you  want  lovers, 

Go  paint  them  on  a  screen, 
For  the  gallant  lads  of  Spain 

Are  plighted  to  the  Queen. 

58 

No  help  for  it ;  must  be  a  soldier 

And  follow  after  the  drum. 
Nothing  but  drum  for  breakfast  and  dinner ; 

Sulky  and  spent  we  come. 
Rran,  tan,  plan,  plan! 

If  only  the  thing  were  dumb ! 


[263] 

59 

The  king  gives  me  four  pennies, 

And  so,  set  free  from  care, 
I  eat  and  drink  and  always  have 

Ready  cash  to  spare. 

60 

Let  the  barracks  stand  for  a  holy  church, 

Each  soldier  for  a  saint, 
And  our  back  pay  for  candles 

Whose  light  is  far  and  faint. 

61 

The  life  of  a  soldier 

Is  to  take  things  as  they  fall, 
To  sleep  in  somebody  else's  bed 

And  to  die  in  the  hospital. 

62 

The  moon  is  a  Republican, 

And  the  sun  with  open  eye ; 
The  earth  she  is  Republican, 

And  Republican  am  I. 

63 

The  Republic  is  dead  and  gone; 

Bury  her  out  of  the  rain. 
But  see!    There  is  never  a  Pan fceon 

Can  hold  the  funeral  train. 


[264] 

64 

When  I  am  missing,  hunt  me  down 
In  Andalusia's  purple  light, 

Where  all  the  beauties  are  so  brown; 
And  all  the  wits  so  bright. 

65 

I  went  to  the  meadow 

Day  after  day, 
To  gather  the  blossoms 

Of  April  and  May, 
And  there  was  Mercedes, 

Always  there, 
Sweetest  white  lily 

That  breathes  the  air.  , 

66 

The  five  pinks  slipt  through  thy  window 
Should  plead  my  rueful  case, 

For  those  are  my  five  senses, 
Now  captives  of  thy  grace. 

67 

Off  goes  the  maiden 

To  Barcelona  town! 
The  mother  who  bore  thee 

Deserves  a  crown. 


[265] 

68 

By  night  I  go  to  the  patio, 

And  my  tears  in  the  fountain  fall, 

To  think  that  I  love  you  so  much, 
And  you  love  me  not  at  all. 

69 

"  What  is  jealousy?  "  asked  a  learned  man, 

Blinking  all  about. 
'Twas  a  peasant  who  made  answer: 

"  Fall  in  love  and  you'll  find  out." 

70 

Mary,  little  Mary, 
Who  lives  next  door  to  me, 
Even  the  holy  water 
Takes  with  coquetry. 

71 

Like  to  mosquitoes 

Are  your  loves,  O  John. 
They  bite  and  leave  a  little  smart, 

They  sing  and  they  are  gone. 

72 

Poor  boy,  you  hav'n't  a  nose, 
For  God  did  not  will  it  so. 

Fairings  you  buy  at  the  fair, 
But  as  for  noses,  no. 


[266] 

73 

San  Sebastian,  shot  full  of  arrows, 
Though  my  mother-in-law  demurs, 

May  the  lot  of  thy  glorious  soul  be  mine, 
The  lot  of  thy  body  hers. 

74 

Ah,  little  widow,  widow ! 

Black  veil  and  lips  so  red ! 
Let  us  two  speedily  marry. 

Leave  God  to  pity  the  dead. 

75 

Maria  gave  me  a  rose, 

And  her  mother  chanced  to  see. 
Then  Maria's  face  was  a  pinker  rose 

Than  the  rose  she  had  given  me. 

76 

If  I  seem  to  make  love  to  thy  cousin, 
Thou  wilt  forgive  the  feint; 

Always  one  kisses  the  altar-step 
Before  one  kisses  the  saint. 

77 

For  one  who  binds  in  a  golden  net 
More  golden  threads  of  hair, 

I  have  forgotten  a  proud  brunette 
With  eyes  of  black  despair. 


[267] 

78 

I  live  so  long  away  from  thee 

It  ought  to  make  me  sage, 
For  when  I  live  away  from  thee, 

Each  moment  is  an  age. 

79 

Tiny  and  dainty,  you  please  me  well, 
Down  to  my  heart's  true  pith. 

You  look  to  me  like  a  little  bell 
Made  by  a  silversmith. 

80 

The  rose-bush  bore  a  rose, 

The  lily-stem  a  bloom, 
Thy  father  reared  a  daughter, 
—  For  whom? 

81 

Half  down  the  street  two  paving-stones 

I  found  in  quarrel  grim, 
Each  claiming  that  your  fairy  foot 
Had  rested  upon  him. 

If  stones  so  fare,  what  then 
Shall  be  the  fate  of  men? 

82 

If  I  could  but  be  buried 

In  the  dimple  of  your  chin, 

I  would  wish,  Dear,  that  dying 
Might  at  once  begin. 


[268] 

83 

Very  anxious  is  the  flea, 

Caught  between  finger  and  thumb. 
More  anxious  I,  on  watch  for  thee, 

Lest  thou  shouldst  not  come. 

84 

If  thou  wilt  be  a  white  dove, 

I  will  be  a  blue. 
We'll  put  our  bills  together 

And  coo,  coo,  coo. 

85 

The  stars  of  heaven 

Are  a  thousand  and  seven. 

Those  eyes  of  thine. 

Make  a  thousand  and  nine. 

86 

Such  love  for  thee,  sent  forth  from  me, 

Beats  on  such  iron  gate 
That  I,  used  so,  no  longer  know 

Whether  I  love  or  hate. 

87 

You  will  not  love  me  because  I  am  poor 
And  can't  even  give  you  flowers? 

Well,  then,  go  marry  the  clock, 
That  can  always  give  the  hours. 


[269] 

88 

Because  I  look  thee  in  the  face, 

Set  not  for  this  thy  hopes  too  high, 

For  many  go  to  the  market-place 
To  see  and  not  to  buy. 

89 

Your  mother  is  always  saying 

That  you  are  better  than  I. 
In  what  book  did  she  read  that  heresy? 

In  what  dream  did  she  dream  that  lie? 

90 

They  say  you  do  not  love  me. 

I  shall  not  take  to  my  bed, 
But  to-morrow  I'll  put  on  mourning 

Of  taffeta  scarlet-red. 

91 

Of  love  and  of  waves 

There  is  this  to  say, — 
They  look  like  mountains, 

And  are  but  spray. 

92 

Don't  act  as  if  you  were  the  Queen, 

Putting  on  such  airs. 
I  don't  choose  to  reach  my  Love 

By  a  flight  of  stairs. 


[270] 

93 

You're  always  saying  you'd  die  for  me. 

I  doubt  it  nevertheless ; 
But  prove  it  true  by  dying, 

And  then  I'll  answer  yes. 

94 

I'll  not  have  you,  Little  Torment, 
I  don't  want  you,  Little  Witch. 

Let  your  mother  light  four  candles 
And  stand  you  in  a  niche. 

95 

Maiden  of  the  twenty  lovers, 
And  I  the  twenty-first,  no  less, 

—  If  all  the  others  are  like  to  me, 
You'll  die  in  single  blessedness. 

96 

Don't  blame  me  that  eyes  are  wet, 

For  I  only  pay  my  debt. 
I've  taught  you  to  cry  and  fret, 

But  first  you  taught  me  to  forget. 

97 

Once,  that  I  might  not  see  thee, 

I  gave  forth  many  sighs. 
Now,  that  I  may  not  see  thee, 

I  turn  away  my  eyes. 


[271] 

98 

We  loved  each  other  once; 

Our  days  like  music  went ; 
And  then  we  both  forgot, 

And  now  are  both  content. 


99 

Thy  loves  I  might  compare 
To  plates  of  earthenware. 
Break  one  and,  Mother  of  Grace! 
Another  fills  its  place. 


100 

"  Before  I  forget  " 
—  Thus  didst  thou  say  to  me  — 

"  The  Queen  of  the  Moors 

Shall  a  Christian  be." 
Long  ago  thou  didst  forget, 
But  the  Queen  of  the  Moors 

Is  a  Moslem  yet. 


101 

Mine  is  a  lover  well  worth  the  loving. 

Under  my  balcony  he  cries : 
"  You  have  maddened  me  with  your  grace  of  moving, 

And  the  beaming  of  your  soft  black  eyes." 


102 

Too  long  our  separation; 

Soul  of  my  soul  thou  art, 
The  Virgin  of  Consolation 

On  the  altar  of  my  heart. 

103 

Though  thou  go  to  the  highest  heaven, 
And  God's  hand  draw  thee  near, 

The  saints  will  not  love  thee  half  so  well 
As  I  have  loved  thee  here. 

104 

The  learned  are  not  wise, 
The  saints  are  not  in  bliss; 

They  have  not  looked  into  your  eyes, 
Nor  felt  your  burning  kiss. 

105 

If  I  had  a  blossom  rare, 

I  would  twine  it  in  thy  hair, 

Though  God  should  stoop  and  ask  for  it 

To  make  His  heaven  more  exquisite. 

106 

When  I  go  to  church, 

And  you  are  not  there, 
I  would  have  mass 

As  short  as  a  prayer. 


When  I  go  to  church 

And  find  you,  Dear, 
I  would  have  mass 

As  long  as  a  year. 

107 

Every  time  I  pass  your  house 

—  I  do  not  have  to  search  — 
I  kneel  upon  the  threshold 

As  if  it  were  a  church. 

108 

Were  it  said  that  the  Rising  Sun 
Had  offended  thee,  most  dear, 

I  would  challenge  the  Terrible,  Shining  One, 
My  heart  against  his  spear. 

109 

To  a  paving-stone  of  the  street 
(Now  what  might  this  betoken?) 

I  told  my  grief  and,  by  my  faith, 
That  paving-stone  was  broken. 

110 

It  weighs  upon  my  heart 

To  see  thy  mourning  dress. 
That  shadow  of  thy  sorrow 

Is  my  distress. 


111  fall  that  sombre  robe! 

Ill  fall  its  every  thread! 
That  my  Sweetheart  should  wear  mourning 

Ere  I  am  dead! 

Ill 

When  thou  wert  born,  each  sleeping  flower 

Swiftly  into  blossom  sprung  ; 
On  the  font  in  thy  baptismal  hour 

Nightingales  lit  and  sung. 


Going  and  coming, 

I  lost  my  heart  one  day. 

Love  came  to  me  laughing  ; 
In  tears  Love  went  away. 

113 

If  to  these  iron  bars 

Thou  wilt  not  bend  thine  head, 
This  very  night  yon  shining  stars 

Shall  see  me  lying  dead. 

U4 

Like  the  eyes  of  my  Sweetheart 

My  hard  life  goes, 
Eyes  great  as  my  weariness, 

Black  as  my  woes. 


[275] 

115 

Pain  and  pain  and  pain  and  pain ! 

All  is  pain  for  me 
—  Pain  because  I  see  thee  not, 

And  pain  because  I  see. 

116 

Have  pity  —  have  pity  upon  me, 

Thou  who  pitiest  none, 
Harder  of  heart  than  the  columns 

In  the  temple  of  Solomon. 

117 

Hope  died  one  day  of  anguish ; 

I  stood  by  the  sepulchre, 
And  saw  among  the  mourners 

Truth,  who  murdered  her. 

118 

I  lost  him  in  a  dream, 

—  But  whither  is  it  gone? 
In  oblivion  must  I  seek  for  him, 

—  But  where's  oblivion  ? 

119 

Three  years  after  I  was  dead, 
The  heavy  earth  above  me  said: 
"  What  if  thy  sweetheart  has  forgot? 
And  I  made  answer :   "  She  has  not." 


[276] 

120 

He  loves  not,  though  he  swear  it  thrice, 
Whose  heart  wears  not  love's  cross  above. 

The  love  that  is  not  sacrifice 

Hath  nothing  but  the  name  of  love. 


CHRISTMAS  CAROLS 

1 

THE  Holy  Night  is  flowing  by; 
Before  the  Christmas  morn, 
Before  the  stars  have  left  the  sky, 
The  Christ-Child  will  be  born. 


When  the  Eternal  a  child  would  be, 

Lovingly  he  to  an  angel  spoke : 
"  Gabriel,  go  to  Galilee, 

And  in  Galilee  find  the  country-folk. 
Ask  for  the  village  of  Nazareth, 

And  enter  softly,  with  folded  wing, 
A  little  cottage  where  flourisheth 

The  stock  of  David,  my  harper-king. 
There  sits  a  maiden,  poor  of  dress, 

Espoused  to  a  humble  carpenter. 
For  her  purity  and  her  gentleness 

Out  of  the  world  have  I  chosen  her." 


[277] 

The  wings  of  the  angel  drank  the  air 

Until  to  that  humble  home  he  came, 
And  Mary  marvelled  to  see  him  there, 

With  wand  of  lily  and  plumes  of  flame. 
The  bright  archangel  bowed  his  knee : 

"  Hail,  among  women  most  highly  blest ! 
The  Lord  our  God  hath  chosen  thee, 

And  Christ  shall  nestle  on  thy  breast." 

3 

A  group  of  weary  travellers  pass 

On  the  road  to  Bethlehem, 
A  maiden  mounted  on  an  ass, 

An  old  man  guiding  them. 
"  We  must  make  haste.    The  evenings  are 

So  cold,  your  clothes  so  thin, 
And  poor  folk  often  journey  far 

Before  they  find  an  inn. 
But  here  one  stands.     Halloo!  halloo! 

Inn-keeper,  open  quick, 
For  Mary  can  no  further  go. 

She's  tired  and  she's  sick." 
A  one-eyed  face,  all  angry-browed, 

Came  peering  through  the  gate. 
"  Who  is  it  calling  here  so  loud, 

And  at  an  hour  so  late?  " 
"  'Tis  I,"  returned  the  troubled  saint. 

"  A  lodging  I  entreat 
For  Mary,  so  forspent  and  faint 

Her  pulses  hardly  beat." 
"  Let  old  St.  Joseph  go  his  ways," 

That  inn-keeper  replied. 


[278] 

"  The  good  guest  is  the  guest  that  pays. 

The  rest  may  stay  outside." 
"  Nay,  take  us  in,  though  I  confess 

An  empty  purse  I  bear, 
But  poverty  and  weariness 

Are  sacred  everywhere." 
"  The  only  sacred  thing  I  see 

Is  money.     Poor  folk  may 
Lodge  where  they  can,  but  as  for  me, 

I  kiss  the  hands  that  pay." 
The  one-eyed  face  drew  back,  the  gate 

Was  slammed,  —  and  then  went  blind 
The  other  eye,  to  match  the  state 

Of  that  benighted  mind. 
A  dog  now  leads  him  through  the  streets, 

Where  woefully  he  sells 
Rosaries  and  ballad-sheets, 

Charms  and  cockle-shells. 


The  Virgin  is  spreading  handkerchiefs 

On  the  rosemary  to  dry. 
The  little  birds  are  singing, 

And  the  brook  is  running  by. 
The  Virgin  washes  handkerchiefs, 

And  spreads  them  in  the  sun, 
But  St.  Joseph,  out  of  mischief, 

Has  stolen  every  one. 
And  then  her  poor  mantillas 

The  Virgin  washes  well. 
St.  Joseph  spreads  them  in  the  sun. 


[279] 

Behold  a  miracle ! 
The  cloth  cuts  up  itself  and  makes 

A  set  of  baby-clothes, 
So  joyful  with  St.  Joseph 

The  Virgin  homeward  goes. 

5 

Into  the  porch  of  Bethlehem 

Have  crept  the  gypsies  wild, 
And  they  have  stolen  the  swaddling  clothes 

Of  the  new-born  Holy  Child. 

Oh,  those  swarthy  gypsies! 

What  wont  the  rascals  dare? 
They  have  not  left  the  Christ-Child 

A  single  shred  to  wear. 

6 

The  night  is  cold, 

But  garlands  weave, 
And  sing  the  songs 

Of  Christmas  Eve. 
The  Child  is  born. 

Through  frosty  weather 
Kings  and  shepherds 

Haste  together. 
Where  might  such  guest 

A  welcome  win? 
Where  ox  and  mule 

Keep  the  inn. 


[280] 

For  bed  they  give  him 

Straw  and  hay, 
The  earliest  gifts 

Of  Christmas  Day. 
Ox  and  mule, 

He  smiles  on  them, 
The.  Little  Child 

Of  Bethlehem. 
A  Little  Child? 

The  Prince  of  Peace, 
Whose  victories 

Shall  never  cease. 

7 

There  has  been  born  in  a  stable, 

Amid  the  shavings  curled, 
Between  the  mule  and  the  ox, 

The  Saviour  of  the  world. 

And  King  Melchior  said: 
"  Blow  the  pipe  and  sound  the  horn. 
Tell  the  world  that  Christ  is  born." 

O  Child,  with  only  straw 

To  cover  Thee  from  the  cold, 

Thou  shouldst  be  clad  in  velvet, 
In  velvet  and  in  gold. 

Sun,  moon  and  star  are  shining 

Within  that  lowly  stall, 
St.  Joseph  and  St.  Mary 

And  the  Child,  most  bright  of  all. 


[281] 

Fire-bells  are  ringing,  ringing 

In  Bethlehem  to-night. 
'Tis  a  star  has  fallen  from  heaven 

And  set  the  straw  alight. 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  poor  gypsy 

Who've  trudged  o'er  field  and  fell 
To  bring  unto  the  Baby 

This  crested  cockerel." 

"  I  am  a  poor  Galician, 

Long  roads  my  feet  have  hurt, 
But  here  I  bring  some  linen 

To  make  a  baby-shirt." 

All  bring  the  Christ-Child  presents  ; 

The  poorest  does  his  part; 
And  I,  who  am  so  little, 

Give  to  Him  my  heart. 

8 


On  the  breast  of  Mary  lies  a  Baby-Boy. 

Peace  on  earth! 
At  the  solemn  midnight  she  gave  the  Christ-Child  birth. 

Tender  one! 
In  the  dark  and  in  the  frost  is  Thy  life  begun. 

Cherubs  peep 
Through  the  stable  chinks  to  see  their  little  God  asleep 

In  the  hay, 
Dancing  on  the  roof  above  Him  softly  as  they  may. 


[tiBt] 

Shepherds  keep 
In  the  winter  pastures  watch  about  their  sheep. 

In  the  skies 
Suddenly  a  glorious  star  astonishes  their  eyes. 

Sore  afraid 
Stand  the  shepherds  till  an  angel  all  in  white  arrayed 

Speaks  to  them, 
While  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  poured  on  Bethlehem. 

"  Lo,  I  bring 

Tidings  of  great  joy,  the  birth  of  Jesus  Christ,  your 
King. 

You  shall  find 

In  a  manger,  wrapped  in  swaddling  clothes,  the  Saviour 
of  mankind." 

Eagerly 
The  shepherds  run  to  Bethlehem,  this  miracle  to  see, 

And  behold 

A  stable-door  where  angels  watch  with  wings  of  shining 
gold. 

Poorly  clad 
Is  the  Baby  in  a  petticoat,  the  best  that  Mary  had. 

At  her  feet 
Angels  kneel,  adoring  her,  Madonna  pure  and  sweet. 

By  her  stands 

Good   St.   Joseph,   serving   her   with   labor-roughened 
hands, 

While  the  kine 
With  grave  and  gentle  eyes  look  on  at  the  scene  divine. 

With  good  leave 

Come  the  shepherds  and  from  all  a  welcoming  smile  re 
ceive  ; 


[283] 

Then  before 

The  Virgin  bright  they  bow  themselves  upon  the  stable 
floor. 

"  Queen,"  they  say, 
"  Can  it  be  that  God  Most  High  puts  on  mortal  clay? 

Mystery ! 
Thou,  the  Mother  of  the  Christ,  ever  blessed  be ! 

Baby  dear, 
Do  not  cry.     It  burns  our  hearts,  every  little  tear. 

Fare  thee  well, 
Father  Joseph ;  thee,  our  Lady ;  Thee,  Immanuel. 

Had  we  gold 
It  were  yours,  but  yours  our  cots  and  the  sheep  we  fold. 

One  more  peep 
At  the  Baby.    Little  One,  snuggle  down  and  sleep. 

Senor  Mule, 
Senor  Ox,  good-bye  to  you.    Wish  you  merry  Yule !  " 

Thus  depart 

The   shepherds   with   all   courtesy,   exceeding   glad   of 
heart. 


PLAYING  WITH  BABY 

1 
Riding  the  Foot 

TROT,  little  donkey!     Donkey,  trot! 
We  must  buy  honey  to  please  the  pet. 
If  San  Francisco  has  it  not, 
We'll  go  to  San  Benet. 


Patty-Cake 

Patty-cakes,  oh!     Patty-cakes,  ah! 
The  sweetest  cakes  are  for  dear  mama. 
Patty-cakes,  oh!     Patty-cakes,  ah! 
The  hardest  pats  are  for  poor  papa. 

Bread,  O  God !     Bread,  dear  God, 
For  this  little  child  to-day! 

Because  he's  such  a  baby, 
He  cannot  pay  his  way. 


Learning  to  Walk 

One  little  step,  Baby-boy  mine! 

Come,  Little  Man,  step  up! 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  taste  of  wine 

From  Godfather's  silver  cup. 


CHILDREN'S  SONGS 

1 

To  the  Whistle 

WHISTLE,  whistle,  Margarita, 
And  you'll  get  a  crust  of  bread, 
But  if  you  do  not  whistle, 
I'll  cut  off  your  little  head. 


[285] 


Rocking  Dolly  to  Sleep 

Don't  pin-prick  my  poor  old  dolly  Do 

Respect  my  domestic  matters.  Re 

Methinks  she  grows  melancholy,  Mi 

Fast  as  her  sawdust  scatters.  Fa 

Sole  rose  of  your  mamma's  posy,  Sol 

Laugh  at  your  mamma,  so !  La 

Seal  up  your  eyes  all  cozy.  Si 

La     Sol     Fa     Mi     Re     Do. 

3 
On  the  Way  to  School 

In  the  street  they  call  Toledo 

Is  a  famous  school  for  boys, 
Chundarata,  chundarata, 

Chundarata,  chun-chun, 
Where  all  we  lads  are  going 

With  a  most  heroic  noise, 
Chundarata,  chundarata, 

Chundarata,  chun-chun. 

And  the  parrots  on  their  perches, 

They  mock  us  as  we  go, 
Chundarata,  chundarata, 

Chundarata,  chun-chun. 
"  I  hate  my  school,"  whines  Polly, 

"  For  my  master  beats  me  so." 
Chundarata,  chundarata, 

Chundarata,  chun-chun. 


[286] 


Playing  Soldier 

The  Catalans  are  coming, 

Marching  two  by  two. 
All  who  hear  the  drumming 

Tiptoe  for  a  view. 
Ay,  ay! 

Tiptoe  for  a  view. 
Red  and  yellow  banners, 

Pennies  very  few. 
Ay,  ay! 

Pennies  very  few. 

Red  and  yellow  banners! 

The  Moon  comes  out  to  see. 
If  moons  had  better  manners, 

She'd  take  me  on  her  knee. 
Ay,  ay ! 

Take  me  on  her  knee. 
She  peeps  through  purple  shutters. 
Would  I  were  tall  as  she ! 

Ay,  ay! 
Would  I  were  tall  as  she ! 

Soldiers  need  not  learn  letters, 

Nor  any  schooly  thing, 
But  unless  they  mind  their  betters, 

In  golden  chains  they'll  swing. 
Ay,  ay! 

In  golden  chains  they'll  swing. 


[  287  ] 

Or  sit  in  silver  fetters, 
Presents  from  the  King. 

Presents  from  the  King. 


Butterfly  Tag 

"  Who  are  these  chatterers  ? 

Ah,  such  a  number! 
Not  by  day  nor  by  night 

Do  they  let  me  slumber." 
They're  daughters  of  the  Moorish  king, 

Who  search  the  garden  close 
For  lovely  Lady  Ana, 

The  sweetest  thing  that  grows. 
She's  opening  the  jasmine 

And  shutting  up  the  rose. 

Butterfly,  butterfly, 

Dressed  in  rose-petals! 
Is  it  on  candle-flame 

Butterfly  settles? 
How  many  shirts 

Have  you  woven  of  rain? 
Weave  me  another 

Ere  I  call  you  again. 

Now  that  Lady  Ana 
Walks  in  garden  sweet, 


[ 288] 

Gathering  the  roses 

Whose  dew  is  on  her  feet, 
Butterfly,  butterfly, 
Can  you  catch  us?    Try  it,  try!  " 

6 

Puss  in  the  Corner 

"A  candle  here?" 

"  Over  there." 
"A  candle  here?" 

"  Otherwhere." 
"  Candle,  a  candle  !  " 

"  Loss  on  loss !  " 
"Where  is  light?" 

"  In  the  Holy  Cross." 

7 
Tell-Tale 

Tell-tale!     Tell-tale! 

In  hell  you'll  be  served  right, 
All  day  fed  on  mouldy  bread, 

And  pounded  all  the  night. 

8 
Indian  Giver 

He  who  gives  and  takes  again, 

Long  in  hell  may  he  remain! 

He  who  gives  and  takes  once  more, 

May  we  hear  him  beat  on  the  Devil's  door ! 


[289] 

9 

Dancing  Verses 

Pipe  away!  pipe  away! 
Let  us  play  a  little  play! 
What  will  we  play? 
We'll  cut  our  flowers  away. 
Who  cut  them,  who? 
Rain  from  out  the  blue. 
Where  is  the  rain? 
Hens  drank  it  up  again. 
Hens?     And  where  are  they? 
Gone  their  eggs  to  lay. 
Who  will  eat  them  up? 
Friars  when  they  sup. 
What  do  friars  do? 
Sing  "  gori-gori-goo." 

10 

Whirling  with  Clasped  Hands 

Titirinela,  if  you  please! 
Titirinela,  bread  and  cheese! 
"What  is  your  father's  worshipful  name?" 

"  Sir  Red-Pepper,  who  kisses  your  hands." 
"  And  how  does  he  call  his  beautiful  dame?  " 
"  Lady  Cinnamon,  at  your  commands." 
Titirinela,  toe  to  toe! 
Titirinela,  round  we  go ! 


[290] 

11 

Playing  Washerwoman 

"  Mother  has  gone  to  work. 

Mother'll  be  gone  all  day. 
Now  can  Mariquilla 

Laugh  and  dance  and  play." 
"  What  hast  been  doing,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Sweeping  with  broom  of  briar." 
"  A  friar  saw  thee  playing." 

"  He  was  a  lying  friar." 
"A  holy  friar  tell  a  lie!" 

"  He  lied  and  so  do  you." 
"  Come  hither,  Mary  of  my  heart, 
And  I'll  beat  thee  black  and  blue." 


Ready  for  a  Jump 

Saint  Mary  Magdalen, 

Don't  let  me  break  my  thigh! 
Oh,  Saint  Thomas, 

Help  this  birdie  fly. 


13 

Comparing  Saints 

Old  San  Anton, 
What  has  he  done? 
Put  us  in  the  corner  every  one. 


[291] 

San  Sebastian 
Is  a  nice  young  man. 
He  takes  us  to  walk  and  gives  us  a  fan. 


14 

Our  Lady 

For  studying  my  lessons, 

So  as  not  to  be  a  dunce, 
£apa  gave  me  eight  pennies 

That  I  mean  to  spend  at  once. 
Four  for  my  dolly's  necklace, 

Three  for  a  collar  fine, 
And  one  to  buy  a  candle 

For  Our  Lady's  shrine. 


15 

When  the  Stint  is  Done 

Virgin  Most  Holy 

Your  servant  kneels  to  say 
That  with  your  kind  permission 

It  is  time  to  play. 
Mother  Most  Holy, 

My  loving  heart  implores, 
Bless  this  little  sinner 

Before  she  runs  outdoors. 


16 

Now  I  Lay  Me 

Jesus,  Joseph,  Mary, 

Your  little  servant  keep, 

While  with  your  kind  permission 
I  lay  me  down  to  sleep. 


WORLDLY  WISDOM 

IF  any  cadet 
With  thee  would  go, 
Daughter,  instantly 

Answer  no. 
For  how  can  cadet, 

This  side  of  Heaven, 
Keep  a  wife 

On  his  dollars  seven? 

If  any  lieutenant 

Asks  a  caress, 
Daughter,  instantly 

Answer  yes. 
For  the  lieutenant 

Who  kisses  thy  hand 
May  come  to  be 

A  general  grand. 


[293] 

LONG    LIVE    LOVE 
(A  Circle  Dance) 

MAMBRU  went  forth  to  battle. 
Long  live  Love! 
I  listen  for  his  coming  feet. 
The  rose  on  the  rosebush  blossoms  sweet. 

He  will  come  back  by  Easter. 

Long  live  Love! 

He  will  come  back  by  Christmas-tide. 
The  rose  on  the  bush  has  drooped  and  died. 

Down  the  road  a  page  is  riding. 

Long  live  Love! 

"  Oh,  what  are  the  tiding  that  you  bear?" 
The  rose  on  the  bush  is  budding  fair. 

"  Woe  is  me  for  my  tidings !  " 

Long  live  Love! 

66  Mambru  lies  cold  this  many  a  morn." 
Ay,  for  a  rosebush  sharp  with  thorn! 

A  little  bird  is  chirping. 
Long  live  Love! 

In  the  withered  bush  where  no  more  buds  blow> 
The  bird  is  chirping  a  note  of  woe. 


[294] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  CEFERINO 


HE  daughters  of  Cefermo 
J-        Went  to  walk  —  alas  ! 
A  street  above,  a  street  below, 

Street  of  San  Tomas. 
The  least  of  all,  they  lost  her. 

Her  father  searched  —  alas  ! 
A  street  above,  a  street  below, 

Street  of  San  Tomas. 
And  there  he  found  her  talking 

With  a  cavalier,  who  said: 
"  Come  home  with  me,  my  darling  ; 

'Tis  you  that  I  would  wed." 

Oh,  have  you  seen  the  pear  tree 

Upon  my  grandpa's  lawn? 
Its  pears  are  sweet  as  honey, 

But  when  the  pears  are  gone, 
A  turtle-dove  sits  moaning, 

With  blood  upon  her  wings, 
Amid  the  highest  branches, 

And  this  is  what  she  sings  : 
"  111  fares  the  foolish  maiden 

Who  trusts  a  stranger's  fibs. 
She'd  better  take  a  cudgel 

And  break  his  ugly  ribs." 


[295] 


WASHING  THE  HANDKERCHIEF 

"T3  RIGHT  is  the  fountain, 

A-J     When  skies  are  blue. 
Who  washed  my  handkerchief? 

Tell  me  true !  " 
"  Three  mountain  maidens 

Of  laughing  look. 
White  went  their  feet 

In  the  running  brook. 
One  threw  in  roses, 

And  jasmine  one. 
One  spread  thy  handkerchief 

In  the  sun." 


M 


MAMBRU 

t 
AMBRU  is  gone  to  serve  the  king, 

And  comes  no  more  by  fall  or  spring. 


We've  looked  until  our  eyes  are  dim. 
Will  no  one  give  us  word  of  him? 

You'd  know  him  for  his  mother's  son 
By  peasant  dress  of  Aragon. 

You'd  know  him  for  my  husband  dear 
By  broidered  kerchief  on  his  spear. 

The  one  I  broider  now  is  wet. 
Oh,  may  I  see  him  wear  it  yet! 


[296] 

THE  LEANING  TOWER  OF  SARAGOSSA 

Sung  in  Dialogue 

1 — €<TN  Saragossa 

J-     —  Oh,  what  a  pity !  — 
Has  fallen  the  tower, 
Pride  of  the  city." 

2— "  Fell  it  by  tempest, 
Fairies  or  witches, 
The  students  will  raise  it, 
For  students  have  riches." 

1 — "  Call  on  the  students, 

Call  louder  and  louder! 
They've  only  two  coppers 
To  buy  them  a  chowder." 

2 — "  Chowder  of  students 

Is  sweeter  than  honey, 
But  the  gay  Andalusians 
Have  plenty  of  money." 

1 — "  The  gay  Andalusians 

Have  fiddle  and  ballad, 
But  only  two  coppers 
To  buy  them  a  salad." 

% — "  In  Saragossa 

—  Oh,  what  a  pity !  — 
Has  fallen  the  tower, 
Pride  of  the  city." 


[297] 


FLOWERS  ARE  FOR  THE  EARTH 

FLOWERS  are  for  the  earth 
And  children  for  the  sky. 
When  once  they've  gone  to  look  on  God, 

They  love  it  best  on  high. 
Then  let  the  bells  ring  out  and  say: 
"  One  angel  more  in  heaven  to-day." 


A  DISMAL  LITTLE  NUN 

I  WANTED  to  be  married 
To  a  sprightly  barber-lad, 
But  my  parents  wished  to  put  me 
In  the  convent  dim  and  sad. 


One  afternoon  of  summer 
They  walked  me  out  in  state, 

And  as  we  turned  a  corner, 
I  saw  the  convent  gate. 


Out  poured  all  the  solemn  nuns 
In  black  from  toe  to  chin, 

Each  with  a  lighted  candle, 
And  made  me  enter  in. 


[298] 

The  file  was  like  a  funeral ; 

The  door  shut  out  the  day ; 
They  set  me  on  a  marble  stool 

And  cut  my  hair  away. 


The  pendants  from  my  ears  they  took, 
And  the  ring  I  loved  to  wear, 

But  the  hardest  loss  of  all  to  brook 
Was  my  mat  of  raven  hair. 


If  I  run  out  to  the  garden 
And  pluck  the  roses  red, 

I  have  to  kneel  in  church  until 
Twice  twenty  prayers  are  said. 


If  I  steal  up  to  the  tower 
And  clang  the  convent  bell, 

The  holy  Abbess  utters  words 
I  do  not  choose  to  tell. 


My  parents,  O  my  parents, 
Unkindly  have  you  done, 

For  I  was  never  meant  to  be 
A  dismal  little  nun. 


[299] 

SANTA  CATALINA 

SANTA  Catalina !  to-morrow  is  thy  day. 
Thou  wilt  go  up  to  heaven  with  a  holy  glee, 
And  old  San  Pedro,  spying  thee,  will  say: 

"  What  woman  is  this  who  is  calling  me?  " 
"  Catalina  I,  who  by  the  martyrs'  path  have  fared." 
"  Little  Dove,  come  in,  come  in !     Thy  dove-cot  is  pre 
pared." 

HARVEST  SONG 

WET  is  April, 
But  gently  falls  the  rain, 
For  the  Lord  our  God  commands  it 
Not  to  hurt  the  grain. 
The  first  of  May, 
When  sowing-time  is  done 
Come  visiting  the  fields 
Mary  and  her  Son. 
Here  and  there 
Pause  their  holy  feet, 
While  they  shed  a  blessing 
On  the  springing  wheat. 
In  the  month  of  June, 
When  the  tempests  sleep, 
God  gives  me  permission 
To  go  forth  and  reap. 
Through  Him  Who  watched  our  labors 
And  kept  our  hearts  from  sin, 
And  by  the  help  of  neighbors, 
The  crops  are  gathered  in. 


[300] 

BONAPARTE  WENT  UP  TO  HEAVEN 

BONAPARTE  went  up  to  Heaven 
To  make  request  of  the  Lord 
That  He  give  him  the  kingdoms  of  Europe 
To  rule  with  fire  and  sword. 
And  this  did  Jehovah  accord; 
He  had  asked  for  no  kingdom  in  vain ; 
God  had  granted  one  after  another, 
Till  Bonaparte  asked  for  Spain. 
Then  the  Son  spoke,  firm  and  plain: 
"  No.     Spain  belongs  to  my  Mother." 

VIVA  CADIZ 

VIVA  Cadiz,  silver  Cadiz, 
Whose  walls  defy  the  sea, 
Cadiz  of  the  pretty  girls, 
Of  courtesy  and  glee! 

Good  luck  to  merry  Cadiz, 
As  white  as  ocean  spray, 

And  her  five  and  twenty  cannon 
That  point  Gibraltar  way! 

QUEEN  ISABEL 

IN  Madrid  there  is  a  palace, 
As  bright  as  polished  shell, 
And  in  it  lives  a  lady 
They  call  Queen  Isabel. 


[301] 

Not  for  count  nor  duke  nor  marquis 

Her  father  would  she  sell, 
For  not  all  the  gold  in  Spain  could  buy 

The  crown  of  Isabel. 

One  day  when  she  was  feasting 

Within  this  palace  grand, 
A  lad  of  Aragon  walked  in 

And  seized  her  by  the  hand. 
Through  street  and  square  he  dragged  her 

To  a  dreary  prison  cell, 
And  all  that  weary  way  she  wept, 

The  lady  Isabel. 

"  For  whom  art  weeping,  lady  ? 

What  gives  thy  spirit  pain? 
If  thou  weepest  for  thy  brothers, 

They  will  not  come  again. 
If  thou  weepest  for  thy  father, 

He  lies  'neath  sheet  of  stone." 
"  For  these  I  am  not  weeping, 

But  for  sorrows  of  mine  own. 

"  I  want  a  golden  dagger." 

"  A  golden  dagger !     Why?  " 
"  To  cut  this  juicy  pear  in  two. 

Of  thirst  I  almost  die." 
We  gave  the  golden  dagger; 

She  did  not  use  it  well. 
Ah,  no,  it  was  not  pears  you  cut, 

My  lady  Isabel. 


[  302  ] 

MARSHAL  PRIM 

A    S  he  came  from  the  Cortes, 
^      Men  whispered  to  Prim: 
"  Be  wary,  be  wary, 

For  life  and  for  limb." 
Then  answered  the  General: 

"  Come  blessing,  come  bane, 
I  live  or  I  die 

In  the  service  of  Spain." 

In  the  Calle  del  Turco, 

Where  the  starlight  was  dim, 
Nine  cowardly  bullets 

Gave  greeting  to  Prim. 
The  best  of  the  Spaniards 

Lay  smitten  and  slain, 
And  the  new  king  he  died  for 

Came  weeping  to  Spain. 

QUEEN  MERCEDES 

"  TIT  HITHER  away,  young  King  Alfonso? 

W        (Oh,  for  pity!)     Whither  away?  " 
"  I  go  seeking  my  queen  Mercedes, 

For  I  have  not  seen  her  since  yesterday." 

"  But  we  have  seen  your  queen  Mercedes, 
Seen  the  queen,  though  her  eyes  were  hid, 

While  four  dukes  all  gently  bore  her 
Through  the  streets  of  sad  Madrid. 


[303] 

"  Oh,  how  her  face  was  calm  as  heaven ! 

Oh,  how  her  hands  were  ivory  white! 
Oh,  how  she  wore  the  satin  slippers 

That  you  kissed  on  the  bridal  niglifr 

"  Dark  are  the  lamps  of  the  lonely  palace. 

Black  are  the  suits  the  nobles  don. 
In  letters  of  gold  on  the  wall  'tis  written : 

Her  Majesty  is  dead  and  gone." 

He  fainted  to  hear  us,  young  Alfonso, 
Drooped  like  an  eagle  with  broken  wing. 

But  the  cannon  thundered :    "  Valor,  valor !  " 
And  the  people  shouted :  "  Long  live  the  king ! 


WE'RE  CHOSEN  FOR  ALFONSITO 

Conscript  Song 

WE'RE  chosen  for  Alfonsito ; 
We  serve  the  Little  King. 
We  care  not  one  mosquito 

For  what  the  years  may  bring. 

How  steel  and  powder  please  us, 
We'll  tell  you  bye  and  bye. 

Give  us  a  good  death,  Jesus, 
If  we  go  forth  to  die. 


[304] 

ON  A  MORNING  OF  ST.  JOHN 

ON  a  morning  of  St.  John 
Fell  a  sailor  into  the  sea. 
"  What  wilt  thou  give  me,  sailor,  sailor, 
If  I  rescue  thee?  " 

"  I  will  give  thee  all  my  ships, 

All  my  silver,  every  gem, 
All  my  gold, —  yea,  wife  and  daughters, 

I  will  give  thee  them." 

"  What  care  I  for  masted  ships, 
What  care  I  for  gold  or  gem? 

Keep  thy  wife  and  keep  thy  daughters ; 
What  care  I  for  them? 

"  On  the  morning  of  St.  John 
Thou  art  drowning  in  the  sea. 

Promise  me  thy  soul  at  dying, 
And  I'll  rescue  thee." 

"  I  commend  the  sea  to  God, 

And  my  body  to  the  sea, 
And  my  soul,  sweet  Mother  Mary, 

I  commit  to  thee." 


[305  ] 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WAFER 

"\\  7* HERE  are  you  going,  dear  Jesus, 

VV        So  gallant  and  so  gay?  " 
"  I  am  going  to  a  dying  man 

To  wash  his  sins  away. 
And  if  I  find  him  sorry 

For  the  evil  he  has  done, 
Though  his  sins  be  more  than  the  sands  of  the  sea, 

I'll  pardon  every  one." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  dear  Jesus, 

So  gallant  and  so  gay?  " 
"  I'm  coming  back  from  a  dying  man 

Whose  sins  are  washed  away. 
Because  I  found  him  sorry 

For  the  evil  he  had  done, 
Though  his  sins  were  more  than  the  sands  of  the  sea, 

I've  pardoned  every  one." 


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